Inked
by Raven'sDesk221b
Summary: The major events of Jo's life can be read on her skin - if you know how to look. And if there's one thing that Sherlock is good at, it's looking. But it's not always that simple, and he can't always understand what the ink is telling him. Post-riechenbach with fem!John. Camp Nanowrimo 2013 winner. Will be updated every Sunday. Jo Watson/Mary Morstan and eventual Jo/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

Jo stumbled into the startlingly bright June sunlight and winced. She was more exhausted than she could ever remember being, and that was counting med-school, her residency, and pulling double, and sometimes triple, shifts in an active war zone; of course becoming a fugitive — hostage — whatever — took a lot of effort, which would have been fine, really, if it hadn't been for what had happened at Bart's. It seemed like an eternity since she had last been outside, but it had barely been twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours and her entire world seemed to have collapsed. She had been taken into police custody shortly after Sherlock's jump, and, after hours of repetitive questioning, was released early the next morning.

It was Monday and the city was just coming to life with restaurants opening and people bustling to work. She could vaguely remember being signed up for a shift at the surgery, but even calling in sick seemed like too monumental of a task for her to deal with just then. Going back to Baker Street was absolutely out of the question - she had just enough energy to hope that someone had broken the news to Mrs. Hudson gently - so she hailed a cab and gave the address for the one place in the world she still felt safe.

Jo knocked on the plain door, praying that Mary hadn't left for work already and steadying herself for disappointment; when the door opened, her relief was so palpable that her knees buckled. Luckily, Mary Morstan's reflexes had always been superb, and she managed to catch her friend before she hit the ground, practically carrying her to the couch. Now that she had reached her goal it was as if her strings had been cut and Jo collapsed gratefully onto the cushions. She let out a shaky sigh when Mary sat down and allowed the soldier to lean against her solid body.

"I heard what happened," Mary whispered, softly petting Jo's hair. "It was on the news."

Jo squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to speak. "He isn't — wasn't — a fake. He didn't do any of the things they say he did."

"I know," she answered. "You believe in him and that's more than enough for me." The doctor just nodded, not knowing what else to say.

A few minutes later Mary shifted, her grip on her friend becoming more firm. "Come on, let's get you into bed. You need sleep, and the couch will kill your shoulder." Jo didn't respond but moved when she was prompted. Mary's flat was small, so the trip to the bedroom was short. Even so, it seemed to be almost too much for Jo, and after watching her fumble helplessly with the buttons on her jacket for a few moments Mary stepped in and helped her get undressed and into bed. Mary went to close the curtains and when she returned Jo latched onto the sleeve of her shirt with almost childlike desperation.

"I don't know if I can sleep," she whispered, not looking directly at her friend.

Mary forced a smile. "That's alright. Give it a try, and if it doesn't work then I'll give you something to help." Jo nodded and squeezed her eyes shut again. A full minute passed with neither woman speaking or moving.

"Stay," Jo finally said, her voice barely audible. "Please."

"Of course," she agreed, slowly pulling away to strip down herself. "As long as you need me to; I've already called in sick for today." Jo just nodded and let herself be be manipulated until both women were as comfortable as possible. She buried her face in the warm, dark space between her friend's neck and shoulder and finally let herself cry as Mary rubbed soothing circles on her back.

Jo didn't leave Mary's flat again for an entire week, and even then, she only left because she was in desperate need of her own clothes. Mary went with her while Mrs. Hudson was out in order to get the essentials and the whole trip was over within an hour and a half; she felt bad for avoiding her landlady, but she couldn't bare to deal with the other woman's grief as well as her own. She had finally called into work and had been granted a leave of absence, and she had built up enough of a savings working with Sherlock that she didn't have to worry about money for at least a month or two — especially since Mary had offered to let her stay with her for as long as she needed.

The funeral was a quiet affair, planned entirely by Mycroft (not that Jo had wanted any part in it), with only a handful of Sherlock's family and friends. Angelo cried loudly in the back and Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly at Jo's side; Mary, of course, held her hand through the whole thing. Lestrade gave the eulogy. It was obviously sincere and heart felt, and when he got choked up half-way through Jo could see the guilt written all over him; she still couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for him.

They left shortly after the service. Jo had no desire to speak with anyone there; Mrs. Hudson wasn't sure she could manage interacting with any of them without losing her temper, and Mary, who had become rather fond of the landlady since she had shown up at her flat unexpectedly, demanding to see Jo, had been itching to get both women out of there from the moment they arrived. They went out to lunch because while neither of them were really hungry, Mary had implemented a strict meal plan as soon as she realized that without prompting Jo would simply have ceased to eat. They sat in silence, sullenly picking at their food. Finally, Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.

"You never met Sherlock, did you Mary?" She asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful. She continued when the brunette shook her head. "You would have liked him, I think. He was very sweet, in his own way. And painfully honest. He wasn't nearly as heartless as he wanted people to believe he was."

Mary smiled, eager to hear more about the man her friend hardly spoke about. "How did you meet him, then? Jo says that you knew him longer than anyone else." At this Jo finally perked up, interested in the conversation for the first time; she had never managed to get any more of the story than Sherlock's original pronouncement on the subject.

"Yes, he was twenty-one, I think, when we met," she answered, smiling fondly as she remembered. "Still in uni at any rate. My niece went to school with him, and she mentioned that he sometimes helped students with their problems.

"My husband had already been convicted in Florida, but his lawyers said that they had found new evidence that would prove his innocence. I knew better than anyone that he had killed those girls, and that if he was released I would be the first one he came for. So I paid for Sherlock to go with me to the hearing and he proved that the lawyers had fabricated the evidence; it was huge scandal.

"He wouldn't let me pay him anything, either. He refused to take anything from anyone; I think it almost killed him that his family was paying his tuition. He did come by and let me feed him up once a month or so. He'd fall asleep on my couch after dinner, every time like clockwork; I think he just liked knowing that there was someone else around, the poor thing. He was so lonely, at least until you came around, Jo; I was so glad that he found someone."

Jo shook her head. "We weren't together. We were just friends. I'm surprised I managed to catch his attention at all."

"I saw the two of you together, and there wasn't anything 'just' about your friendship," she replied seriously. She softened her tone and continued. "I don't think I'd ever seen him take to anyone the way he took to you. He tried to impress you, cleaning up the flat and taking you to those suicides. Don't you dare think he was anything other than utterly fascinated by you, Jo Watson."

She smiled. "If you say so. Although I think that may have been his one and only attempt at cleaning. You'd think that a man with a sock index would have been a bit more particular about where he put his things." The other two women chuckled, and so Jo launched into another story about Sherlock's antics, which was followed by Mrs. Hudson answering with one of her own. They continued for hours, and Mary wouldn't have stopped them for the world, happy that Jo was showing any sign of progress, no matter how small.

Three weeks after Sherlock's jump, Jo went back to work. She hadn't been able to bring herself to go back to Baker Street again after she and Mary had gone to pack some of her things, but she knew that she couldn't hide away forever and going back to work was definitely good way to start her return to society. Her shift was exhausting - although in a pleasant way - but she still made it back to flat before Mary did. Wanting to stay busy, she set about making dinner. The meal was almost done when Mary came in, her arms loaded with folders filled with papers that stuck out haphazardly. Her suit was well tailored and flattering, even though it was badly rumpled after a long day at the office; the pinstripes slimmed her never-going-to-be-hourglass figure and the navy blue went well with her olive skin tone and dark brown hair. Taller than Jo barefoot, the heels she wore made it more than noticeable. Her hair had started to escape from its bun and was wisping around her face and curling at the nape of her neck; her plump cheeks were flushed from the summer heat.

"Honey, I'm home," she announced, sounding frazzled yet cheerful.

Jo smiled at her. "How was the office, dear?"

"Hellish," she answered, plopping her folders on the counter-top. "You would not believe the people I have to deal with. I'll tell you about it over dinner."

She nodded. "Alright, it'll be ready in a mo. You should get changed."

"Right, I'll just slip into something more comfortable." She joked, waggling her eyebrows. Jo laughed and turned back to the stove.

Mary came back dressed in sweats and a vest just as Jo was putting the food on the table. "This smells fantastic. It's nice to come home to a hot meal."

"Well don't get used to it," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I just wanted to keep my hands busy." After a beat of silence she continued, forcing some cheerfulness into her voice. "Anyway, you were going to tell me about your day. Just hold on a sec; I even have wine."

Her friend grinned, settling into a chair. "Wine and dinner? You should be sainted; I'll start the petition myself."

"I don't think that that sort of thing is done by petition," she answered dryly. "So, what happened? Did your new assistant start hitting on you again?"

She laughed. "No, I managed to shut that down pretty effectively the last time he tried it; although I think I might have preferred dealing with that. Instead I had to deal with seventy year old billionaire, his twenty-nine year old fiance, and his snobby children. He wanted me to write up a pre-nuptial agreement for them, but his obnoxious children kept butting in every two minutes because, apparently, a basic pre-nup wasn't good enough for dear old dad and his mounds of cash. I could barely get a word in edge wise."

"Oh the horror," Jo teased. "It must be awful for a barrister not to be the loudest person in the room."

"Shut up," Mary answered, scowling at the other woman. Jo shrugged sheepishly and the barrister continued her story. "Then I had to spend my lunch-hour at the shop because apparently my new artist didn't show up for her appointment and I had to cover for her. And by the time I got back to the office I was late for my meeting with the partners at my firm, so I had to pay penance by staying late. The Tube was late and over-crowded, as usual, and I still have tons of research I need to do for one of my cases."

Jo grimaced sympathetically. "Have you ever considered that only having one career might make your life a whole lot easier?"

"I have, actually," she replied, taking a drink of wine. "But what's the fun in that? Besides, what would I do with the shop? Dad would spin in his grave if I sold it, and I love tattooing. I just need to hire more reliable people."

"Yes, because artists are known for being terribly reliable and consistent," she muttered sarcastically.

Mary rolled her eyes. "You're just jealous of my ridiculously exciting life. Why don't you regale me with your fascinating tales of treating London's hypochondriacs." Jo laughed, ignoring a twinge at how similar to Sherlock that sounded, and launched into a story about an eighty year old couple who had been married for sixty years coming in looking for sex tips; it kept them both thoroughly entertained for the rest of the meal.

Later, Mary insisted on doing the dishes, despite Jo's best attempts to get her to let her help. In the end she was shooed away, dropping a brief kiss to Mary's lips in thanks. She made it all the way to the sitting room before realizing that she had just kissed her friend and that that wasn't a very platonic thing to do. She sat down on the couch and waited, not sure of what she was going to say when Mary came back out.

When Mary finally did come out of the kitchen she leaned against the door jam and crossed her arms. "So."

"Yep," Jo answered, not sure what else to say.

Mary sighed. "We've done it before; it doesn't have to change anything."

"True," she agreed. "But it's been a while; we're not kids any more."

She nodded. "Jo, you're my best friend, and a damn good shag; we know from experience that we can keep those two things separate. I'm not cut out for monogamy; you know that. All I'm offering is easy comfort and a good time. But only if you want it."

"It won't work if I stay here," Jo answered after a moment of consideration. "I'll have to find my own place."

Mary broke into a smile. "I'll help you look for one this weekend."

"So we're really going to do this?" She asked, smiling hesitantly herself.

She nodded. "If it's what you want."

There was another pause before Jo nodded as well. "It's what I want." Mary's smile morphed into a grin and she moved gracefully to the couch, cupping Jo's face and pulling her into a languid kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo and Mary had been sleeping together for a little over a month, and things were quite honestly going better than Jo had ever expected them to. She had her own flat and was starting to look for a job that was a little bit more challenging now that she was no longer chasing criminals around London. She still spent a couple nights a week at Mary's, though, and every weekend.

All in all, she was doing much better than she imagined she would in the days directly after Sherlock's jump. And if she still had a frighteningly accurate count of how long it had been since Sherlock jumped, then that was no one's business but her own.

It was Friday night and Jo couldn't sleep. She thought about getting up and doing something productive like making a dent in her ever growing stack of medical journals (last Christmas Sherlock had, in a move of shocking sentimentality, given her a year's subscription to every journal she could possibly want), but the bed was comfortable and Mary's solid presence beside her was incredibly soothing. Mary, for her part, wasn't asleep either and seemed about as willing to get up and do something else as Jo was. She had pushed Jo onto her back and was now tracing her tattoos - the ones she could reach at least; she was focusing mostly on the red Afghani poppies that were interspersed with grenades and sutures, helmets and scalpels, SA80 rifles and bandages. The flowers started in a bunch on the center of her back and spread out with tendrils wrapping around to rest underneath her breasts, reaching down to her waistline and around her hips, and climbing up to her shoulder blades — almost touching the skull that rested over a crossed scalpel and syringe on her right shoulder blade (she had gotten that one done in celebration of finishing medical school). Occasionally Mary's hand drifted to trace Jo's military identification number, which ran down her left ribcage (she had had that one done as a precaution before she left for her first tour in Afghanistan). Mary's lips were resting lightly on the RAMC emblem on Jo's right bicep (she had liked that one since the moment Jo had got it; the doctor had never been able to quite figure out why). After an undetermined length of time which Jo spent trying her best to think of nothing but the sensation of Mary's fingers on her skin, the brunette shifted and sat up, dropping a lingering kiss on the black Dahlia and thorns inked on Jo's right forearm on her way up.

"Jo," she said quietly, rubbing her thumb soothingly along her friend's hipbone. "You were in love with him, weren't you." Jo shook her head, ignoring how fast her heart was suddenly pounding. Mary rolled her eyes. "We both know that you know who I'm talking about, so don't even try to pretend that you don't understand."

Jo sighed. "Mary we were just friends; you know that."

"That doesn't mean you didn't love him," she answered kindly.

She glared up at her friend. "Don't be ridiculous, Mary. You sound like you should be writing for The Sun. He was one of the best friends I've ever had, but I wasn't in love with him."

"Jo, I've known you since we were eighteen, don't lie to me," she answered, raising her voice slightly. "You don't have to admit it if you don't want to, but at the very least stop denying it. You owe it to yourself to stop lying." Jo opened her mouth to continue protesting, but she slowly closed it again, knowing that Mary was too kind to gloat in her silence.

Mary smiled and rewarded her friend with a soft kiss before sitting up again and rubbing thoughtfully at her friend's left arm. "Have you thought about getting another tattoo done? You need to even out your left and right sides."

Jo shrugged, relaxing again after their conversation. "I haven't really thought about it. I don't know what I would get."

"You could get something for him," she suggested. "To commemorate your time together. I could design something for you; it wouldn't have to be obvious to anyone else."

She nodded after a few moments. "I think that would be great, thank you. If you don't mind the extra work, that is."

"Don't be stupid, Jo," she huffed. "I've been looking for a new project anyway. And your skin inks so beautifully; you're a dream to tattoo. Now go make me tea, and I'll start sketching." Jo rolled her eyes but pushed herself off the mattress, snagging her own bathrobe off the floor and headed out to the kitchen.

A few minutes later Mary joined her, sitting at the kitchen table with her sketch book. "Alright, tell me about him. What's the first thing that pops into your head when you think of him?"

"A cat," Jo replied, smiling. "He was ridiculously like a cat. He would curl up on the couch and play with balls of string if I left them lying about. I swear, last winter I found him curled up on the heater because he was cold. And if you scratched him behind his ears he purred."

Mary laughed and started sketching. "Alright, what else?"

"His violin," she answered, her smile becoming a bit more sad. "He played his violin like you tattoo — with everything he had. People always sad that he was so emotionless — hell, sometimes he tried to pretend that it was true — but no one who had ever listened to him really play could honestly believe it." Mary nodded and Jo kept speaking, describing her friend, their life together, their cases, and whatever else popped into her head when she thought of Sherlock Holmes.

Two weeks later Jo was sitting on a table in Mary's shop and doing her best to hold perfectly still as the other woman tattooed her. She had decided to go with a full sleeve on her left arm, mostly because she hadn't been able to decide on only one image. The focal point was a large black cat, twitching it's tail. The cat was surrounded by smaller images that blended together seamlessly: the pink rolling suitcase leading up to the aeroplane (from the Adler fiasco), which had two ninjas on the wing. There was a rabbit cuddled up to the cat and 007 was scrawled along the tail (symbolizing their surprisingly frequent bond nights). There were other images, of course: some from their cases (like Chinese teapots) and some from their life (like the science equipment scattered throughout the scene). On the inside of her arm the words 'Welcome to London' were written in Sherlock's elegant script. The whole piece would probably take months to complete, but Mary had finished all the outlines and lettering in one sitting, and Jo was more than pleased with her work.

Mary had just finished wrapping her arm when Jo's phone rang. It was an organization that ran several battered women shelters throughout the London area. She had applied for a job there and they were calling to set up an interview for the following Monday. Of all the jobs Jo had applied for recently, this was the one that she had wanted the most. She rang off with a grin and couldn't help beaming at her friend as she slipped her phone into her pocket.

"Who was that?" Her friend asked, intrigued by how happy her friend looked.

Jo got to her feet before answering. "Hopefully my new boss. I've got an interview next week."

"That's great Jo," she replied. "Come on, let's go to lunch. You can tell me all about it." Jo agreed and let Mary take her arm as they walked out of the shop.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo couldn't remember the last time she was so nervous about a job interview; she also couldn't remember the last time she had wanted a job so badly. She felt like the interview had gone well, and it was the first one in a while where she hadn't been asked about Sherlock; she wasn't sure if that meant that the interviewer didn't know who she was or that she had some modicum of tact, but it was refreshing all the same.

"Well, Dr. Watson, I must say that you are definitely qualified for the position," said Dr. Jane Andrews, the head of the organization. "But I have to be honest with you: the position you've applied for isn't the one I'd like hire you for. There's another position available that I think might be a bit better suited to your abilities."

Jo frowned. "What do you mean? I'm just a doctor; what sort of position would I be better suited for?"

"It's actually a new position," she answered, her voice gaining excitement. "We've recently gotten a rather large increase in funding and have decided to become international. We've already assisted in opening clinics in several different European countries, but next year we're going to start opening our own clinics around the world. We need someone with strong leadership capabilities and experience operating overseas to lead the projects. You'll also be expected to see regular patients in between projects.

"Of course, if you aren't interested then you're welcome to the position you actually applied for."

Jo shook her head. "No, it sounds great."

"Fantastic!" Andrews replied. "When can you start?"

She smiled. "Two weeks. I have to quit my job. I'll give notice today."

"Good," she stood up and offered her hand for Jo to shake. "I'll send you an email with more of the specifics." Jo shook her hand and left, feeling happier than she had in a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry that this is late. I left Sunday morning to move across the country and meant to have it ready to post before I left; it didn't happen. Regular posting will resume this Sunday**

* * *

Jo got off the plane feeling absolutely exhausted. She had been working for the Women's Protective Clinics for three months and was just returning from her first project abroad. She had worked with another organization to set up a women's clinic in Latvia; she hadn't really been in a leadership position for the trip, but she had learned a lot and was excited to start planning her own operation. As soon as she made it through customs and the baggage claim, she hailed a cab and gave the driver Mary's address. She was dying for a shower and a soft bed, but going back to her empty flat really wasn't all that appealing. Besides, Mary was expecting her.

She was greeted at the door with a kiss. "Jo! You're back! You were supposed to text me when you left the airport; I was going to have dinner ready for you."

"Sorry," Jo answered sheepishly, setting her bag down inside the door. "My phone was dead. And it's not like you were going to cook anyway. I'll just take a quick shower while you call out. I'll eat whatever you order." Mary agreed and gave her a light shove towards the bathroom.

When Jo came out of the shower, wrapped in a bathrobe that smelled like Mary, Chinese food was spread out on the table. "You are a goddess on earth. I'm starving."

"Then sit down and eat," Mary answered, sitting down herself. "I want to hear all about your trip."

After dinner Mary opened a bottle of wine and they moved to the couch. They were about halfway through the bottle when someone knocked firmly on the door. After a pleading look from Mary, Jo sighed and got up to answer it. She was smiling as she opened the door, but it quickly morphed into a frown when she saw who was on the other side.

"Jo, what are you doing here? Your landlady said that you were living in a different part of the city," Lestrade said, looking rather shell-shocked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "She's not my landlady any more, and last I checked, I wasn't required to tell Scotland Yard where I live. I'm allowed to have friends you know."

"Oh, of course, I didn't mean…" he trailed off guiltily.

She sighed. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in?" He asked, shifting back into professionalism.

"Do you have a warrant?" She countered, raising her voice.

"Jo, what's wrong?" Mary asked, drawn to the door by the sound of Jo's agitation. "Who's at the door?"

Lestrade turned to her. "I'm DI Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. There's been a murder in your building; I just wanted to check if you two had heard anything."

"We didn't, goodbye," Jo answered angrily. "Thanks you for serving and protecting, or whatever it is you're supposed to be doing."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Ignore her; she gets cranky when she's tired. Come in, please. Would you like a cuppa?"

"No thanks," he answered, stepping inside. "But thanks anyway. I just have a few questions for you two."

She nodded. "Of course. We can go to the living room." She took Jo by the arm and led her to the sofa, Lestrade following behind. Greg asked his questions as quickly as possible, trying to pretend that it wasn't incredibly awkward. Mary answered them politely and with a smile, while Jo glared at the detective the entire time.

When he finally left Mary turned to Jo with her hands on her hips. "Was that really necessary? Couldn't you see how awful he felt?"

"I damn well hope he feels like shit," Jo yelled. "Do you have any idea what that man did? He came into our home and arrested Sherlock for kidnapping on evidence that was circumstantial at best. He handcuffed him and led him out and he wasn't even resisting. Sherlock trusted him; he respected him. Hell, that man was the closest goddamn thing to a father-figure Sherlock had. And twenty-four hours later he jumped off a fucking building. So I bloody well hope that he feels like absolute shit! Mary do you understand? I can't be in the same fucking room at him without wanting to either deck him or go jump off the same shitty building Sherlock did!

"So don't tell me I'm overreacting, Mary. Because I'm doing the best I can here, and I'm sorry if it's not good enough, but I don't know what else I can do."

Mary reached over and pulled her into her arms. "Oh Jo, honey. I didn't know. I thought you were better."

Jo sighed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that."

She shook her head. "No. You thinking about jumping off buildings is definitely on the list of things I definitely need to know about."

"It's not that bad, really," she answered quietly. "I don't act on every impulse I have, especially not the suicidal ones. And I'm okay, really. My life's not great, but I've got a job that I like, and I've got you, and I've even started dating people who aren't you. So it's not great, but it's okay. Honest."

Mary pressed a careful kiss to her friend's forehead. "You have to tell me if you're ever not okay. Please, Jo. I can't lose you; I don't know what I would do. You're all I've got."

"You're not going to lose me," Jo promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

The next Saturday morning found Mary home alone. Jo had a morning shift at the clinic, and Mary was working in her tattoo parlor that afternoon, but they were going to meet up for dinner that evening. She was just getting ready to leave when someone knocked on the door. She opened it to find DI standing there awkwardly in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt.

"What do you want?" She asked, sounding far less pleasant than he had the night before.

Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. "I need to speak with Jo, and I don't know where else to find her. Please. There's something I need to show her; she'll want to see it, I promise."

"Fine," she answered with a sigh. "But if you hurt her, you'll have me to deal with me.

"I have to go to work now, but Jo will be back a little after lunch. You can wait here. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, but if you go in my bedroom I'll know."

Jo was more tired than she probably should have been after half a shift, but she was still suffering from jet-lag. So she was less than thrilled when she walked into Mary's flat to find Greg Lestrade sitting on the couch with a beer.

"You do know that breaking and entering is, in fact, a crime," she said, dropping her keys on the table.

He forced a smile. "I didn't break in; Mary let me wait here. I need to talk to you."

"That's funny," she answered, sounding less than amused. "Because the last I need to be doing is talking to you. So I think that you should get the fuck out of here."

"It's about Sherlock," he blurted, desperate to get her to listen to him. "I know why he jumped."

Jo froze. "You what?"

"There was a recording," he said, deciding to just plow through. "On his phone. Moriarty was up there with him, and Sherlock recorded everything they said. I tried to find you earlier to show it to you, but I didn't know where to find you and it's not like you were answering my calls. Still, you deserve to hear this." She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Lestrade pulled a digital recorder out of his pocket and pressed play.

The recording started with the tinny sound of Moriarty playing "Stayin' Alive" and ended with her phone call with Sherlock. By the time Lestrade stopped the recording there were tears streaming down her face and she could barely breathe. Greg pulled her into a hug, not knowing what to say to make anything better.

A few minutes later she pulled away, making futile attempts to wipe away her tears. "I'm sorry. I'm normally better at keeping it together."

"It's okay," he answered, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "I bawled like a baby after I first heard it. You can keep this copy; do whatever you want with it. Give it to the press, whatever you want. I would have done it myself, but I didn't want you to find out like that. And besides, you're the one who stood by him; you should be the one to decide what to do with this."

She sniffed, not even bothering to fight back the fresh tears. "I loved him. I loved him more than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. And I never told him. I never told anyone; hell, I barely even let myself think it. You're the only one I've ever told. I was going to spend the rest of my life chasing after that man, but I never even managed to tell him that much. I was too much of a coward to tell him what he meant to me, and he jumped of a fucking building to save my life. He never knew."

"Jo," he said quietly. "Sherlock was the most observant man I've ever met; I'm sure he knew." Jo just nodded.

Mary breathed out a heavy sigh. "Christ, Jo. That's, something. I don't really know what, but it's something." Jo just nodded, clenching the recorder in her hand.

"I don't know what to do," she said, shaking her head. "I have to do something, but I don't know what."

She took a deep breath. "Do you want to know what I think?" Jo nodded and she continued. "I think you should sue. Kitty Riley, The Sun, anyone you can think of. Sue for libel, slander, and defamation of character. Make them pay for what they did. I can't promise that it'll make you feel better, but it'll at least be something for you to focus on. I'd be happy to handle the case, for you; if you decide that that's what you want to do."

"Alright," Jo said after a few moments. "Let's do this. What do you need me to do?"

She leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of everything, I promise."

Four months later Mary and Jo were sitting in a conference room with Kitty Riley, representatives from The Sun, and their team of lawyers. The trial was finally starting the next week, and this was their last attempt to get her to settle. They were offering her 1.5 million pounds, which was, honestly, more than she had ever expected to get — not that she was planning on taking it.

"I'm not settling," she said, making sure to keep her voice as firm as possible.

The lawyers had a brief conversation before turning back to her. "What about two million? This is a lot of money Ms Watson."

"It's Dr. Watson, actually," she replied, her tone even harder than before. "And I don't care how much money it is. I'm not going to settle. You made a public spectacle of Sherlock, and now you're going to have to pay for it. You should have done your research, and then maybe we wouldn't be here. I'll see you next week." She stood up and walked out, Mary following quickly behind.

A month later the trial was over. The court had ruled in favor of Jo and had awarded her five million pounds in reparations. She cared lest about the money, though, and more about the fact that over the course of the trial they had effectively cleared Sherlock's name of all allegations. She wasn't sure that she would have been able to get through the trial without Mary, but now that it was done, she wasn't sure what she was going to do.

They were met on the steps by hoards of reporters, all shouting questions. Jo let Mary corral them into some semblance of order. She answered their questions as simply as possible — yes, she felt vindicated; yes, she was glad people knew the truth about Sherlock; no, she wasn't going to keep the money: she was going to donate to various suicide prevention organizations — but she felt sort of detached from the whole situation. It wasn't until the last question that she became really interested in what was going on.

A pretty blond reporter — Jo hadn't heard whom she was writing for — managed to push her way to the front and asked, "Dr. Watson, is there anything you would like to say to Kitty Riley and The Sun?" Jo froze for what seemed to her to be an eternity; she knew that she should probably say something ambiguous and non-confrontational, but, surprisingly enough, diplomacy had never been her strong suit: it was only when she was compared to Sherlock that she seemed conciliatory.

"There are a lot of things I'd like to say to them," she answered, sounding very sure of herself. "But I think Sherlock said it best when he first met Miss Riley: You repel me." Mary cut off all of the other questions as she took Jo by the arm and led her quickly away.


	4. Chapter 4

Jo's heart was pounding as she fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock her door while simultaneously snogging her current boyfriend-thing. They had been on a couple of dates, but this time they hadn't even made it to dinner before she dragged him upstairs. She finally got the door open and she let Mike push her into the flat. He stripped off her shirt and began maneuvering her towards her bed. He pushed her back, but instead of hitting the mattress, she landed on a human shaped lump. She yelled and pushed herself back up, bracing for a fight. What she was not prepared for, however, was to see Sherlock Holmes sit up in her bed, looking sleep mussed and mildly terrified; it quite literally knocked the air out of her lungs.

"Who the bloody fuck are you?" David yelled, turning red. "Jo, what's this doing in your bed? I'm calling the cops!"

"Get out," Jo whispered, reaching out to stop David from going for his phone.

Sherlock nodded, looking like he was gutted and trying to hide it. "Alright, I'll just go."

"No, you stay," she ordered. "David, get out."

"What do you mean 'get out?'" David asked, still yelling. "Who the fuck is this Jo? If you don't start telling me what's going on, right now, then we're over!"

"Fine," she answered, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. "We're over. You were getting boring anyway. Get out." David spluttered briefly before storming out.

Sherlock finally stood up, still looking nervous. "Jo I'm sorry; I can explain. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but you were later than I expected, and it's not like there's anywhere else comfortable to sit." Jo looked around at her sparse one room flat: the only place to sit other than her bed were the rickety, and admittedly uncomfortable kitchen chairs.

She snorted. "Somehow I'm less concerned about you falling asleep on my bed than I am about you sleeping at all."

"Right, of course," he answered, nodding. "I can explain that too. Just don't kick me out, please." She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob and lunged forward. Sherlock braced for her to take a swing at him, but instead she wrapped him in a hug. He let out a shaky breath of his own and hugged her back.

Sherlock had never been this close to so much of Jo's bare skin at one time. He spread his hand against her back and buried his nose in her hair; he closed his eyes and reveled in the sensations of 'home' that Jo inevitably brought with her. Jo pressed her face against his neck and squeezed her arms around him. He could feel it when she started to cry and he just held her closer, trying to ignore the wetness in his own eyes. A long while later Jo started to pull away and he reluctantly let her go. She turned and looked around before grabbing a vest out of her dresser and pulling it over her head.

"I really am sorry about ruining your date," he said after they had been silent for a few more minutes.

She laughed, genuinely this time. "I never thought that you'd apologize for ruining one of my dates. But don't worry about it; this is much more interesting. I thought you were dead." She paused before adding, "Thank you, for what you did. At Bart's I mean. I don't think I can thank you enough for what you did. And for surviving it."

"I would have still done it," he answered. "If I didn't have a plan; I would have still done it."

She shook her head, sobering immediately. "Fuck Sherlock. You can just say things like that."

"Why not? It's what you would have done," he answered seriously. She just shook her head again, not knowing what else to say.

After a few moments she reached out for him again, grabbing hold of his arm. "I think I need to examine you. Because I saw you die, and I'm sorry, but I need to make sure that you're okay. So if you could please go into the kitchen, I'm going to get my med kit out of the bathroom. Please Sherlock; I just need to see that everything is okay because the last time I saw you, you were broken."

"Of course," he agreed. "Anything you want."

When Jo came back out with her med-kit, Sherlock was sitting on the kitchen table in his boxers. She nodded but didn't say anything. She went through her examination in silence, not even bothering to make her usual jokes. Sherlock seemed to be in good enough health — all considered. He was far too skinny with more scars than when he had left and she could feel that he had broken several ribs even without the aid of x-rays, but despite all of that, he was in relatively good health. She was in the middle of checking his reflexes when it all became too much for her. Her knees buckled and she collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, her chest heaving as she hyperventilated. She pressed her forehead against his thigh as she squeezed her eyes shut against even more tears.

Sherlock began to gently run his fingers through her hair, hoping to be soothing. "It's alright, Jo. Just breathe. Focus on breathing." She nodded and focused all of her attention on taking deep, even breaths, and ignoring the fact that they sounded more like sobs than anything else.

She shook her head, which was still pressed against his leg. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm freaking out like this. I'm supposed to be happy; I am happy. Hell, I'm thrilled — beyond thrilled. I don't understand. This isn't okay, and I don't know why." She finally sat up, wiping ineffectually at her face.

"Jo, I don't expect you to be fine with this," he answered, forcing himself not to fidget nervously. "This isn't like finding a head in the fridge or mold under the sink. I don't expect you to just deal with this and move like you do with everything else I throw at you."

She shook her head, smiling a bit. "What does it say about my life that decapitation is placed on equal footing with mold?"

"It's definitely not dull," he answered, returning her smile.

She shook her head. "Life with you is anything but dull." She paused and her smile grew into a grin. "Life with you. Sherlock, you're alive! Screw everything else: we'll figure it out — we always do. But this is fantastic!

"Now put your clothes back on. I'm going to order us dinner, and you're going to eat it without complaining because you're bordering on dangerously underweight."

"Yes ma'am," he answered, amazed by his friend's ability to take everything he did in stride.


	5. Chapter 5

That night over dinner, Sherlock talked. He explained how he survived jumping from the roof of Bart's; how Mycroft had been helping him and keeping him updated about life back at home; and what he'd been doing since. Jo would have happily listened to him speak for days, but he started holding back yawns at around eleven.

"Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?" She asked, hoping that he'd say no.

He shook his head. "Not really, but it shouldn't be too hard to find somewhere to go. I can leave if you want to go to bed. I understand if you're tired after all of this."

"I'm not the one who's exhausted here," she answered, rolling her eyes.

He shrugged a little sheepishly. "I don't sleep well when I'm not in England."

"Well you can sleep here tonight, if you want," she said nervously. "There's only the one bed, but if you don't mind…" She trailed off, not wanting to admit that she wanted to keep him as close as she could, even if that meant sharing a bed.

"I don't mind," he replied, wincing at how quickly he answered. "I mean, I don't mind if you don't mind."

She nodded. "Alright then. I'm just going to get changed. I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock agreed and tried to force himself not to watch her leave the room. He had brought a small bag with him and he quickly changed into the single pair of sleep pants he had in it and then brushed his teeth in the kitchen sink. He carefully got into the bed, not wanting to be standing around awkwardly when Jo came back out, and did his best to wait patiently. His heart was pounding with something akin to anticipation — a fact that he really hoped Jo wouldn't notice. Nobody had ever been able to read him quite like Jo Watson, and while he was more than happy to see her again, he was worried that he had fallen out of practice when it came to hiding his emotions from her. It wouldn't have been a problem with anyone else (even Mycroft rarely looked too closely at his emotional state) but with Jo, he felt like he was an open book.

Jo came out of the bathroom, turned off the lights, and got into bed — all without saying a word. They were laying side by side, both of them on their backs. The bed was big enough that there was enough room for them to lie comfortably without touching each other. Sherlock did his best to clear his mind, not wanting, for once, to consider all of Jo's motives and reasoning behind doing this. He shifted just a little bit and their hands met; he heard Jo's gasped intake of breath and held his own as Jo shifted as well, clasping their hands together.

Jo woke up as early as she normally did. Sherlock was still sleeping, which didn't surprise her since — whenever he deigned to actually sleep — he usually slept in late. At some point during the night they had both shifted, and now they were lying entwined in each other's arms. It was the most comfortable she could ever remember being, and part of her never wanted to move. The other part of her knew that if Sherlock woke up and saw her like that, it would inevitably reveal more about her emotional state than she really wanted him to see, so after a few blissful minutes of weakness, she carefully extricated herself from the comfortable tangle of limbs and bedding. She quietly got dressed and grabbed her keys, deciding to clear her head by going out and getting them some breakfast. When she got back a little over an hour later, Sherlock was standing in the kitchen staring morosely at her coffee maker as he waited for it to finish percolating. She couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"Why don't you have any food?" He asked, not even bothering to turn around. "You don't even have milk for tea. I seem to remember the lack of milk being one of your biggest complaints about living with me."

She shrugged as she started unloading her bags. "I didn't really see the point of buying food that's just going to spoil when I leave."

"Leave? Leave for where?" He asked, sounding actually curious.

"Iraq," She answered simply, not bothering to look up from what she was doing, so she was surprised when he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

"Iraq? Why are you going back to Iraq? Please tell me that you didn't do something so incredibly stupid as rejoining the army! Last time you were in the army, you got shot!" He sounded genuinely panicked, which worried Jo.

She frowned, grabbing onto his arms. "I didn't re-up, Sherlock; I'm going to help organize a clinic. I thought Mycroft was supposed to be giving you updates; this is my job."

"Well apparently his communication skills need work," he snapped. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down before continuing. "So, what exactly is your job?"

She smiled. "I work for a battered women's clinic. The organization just got funding to set up clinics internationally, so they hired me to be the project manager. This is the first one that I've entirely planned, so I'm going to be over there for longer than I will in the future."

"How long will you be gone?" He asked, sitting down and claiming his share of the food.

"Two months," she answered, sitting down as well. "I leave in three days."

He nodded. "That sounds like a job that was made for you."

"I thought so too," she said with a smile. "And I'll be safe; I promise."

He returned her smile. "Good. I'm sure that you've taken every precaution." She nodded and, with his prompting, proceeded to tell him more about the project as they ate. When the meal was finished they both fell silent.

"You're not staying," Jo said after a few minutes. She stared down at the tabletop, trying desperately not to show how disappointed she was.

He shook his head. "No, I have to leave tonight. Jo, I, left, to keep you safe. I can't come back until I know that my presence alone won't put you in danger. I still have work to do."

"Do you know how long it'll take?" She asked. "Until you're done, I mean."

He shrugged. "Three months, I think. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less."

"Right," she answered, nodding. After a pause she asked, "Why did you come back? If you're not done, then why did you show up in my flat?"

He sighed. "It's been a year Jo."

"Fifteen months," she replied. "It's been more than a year. I could give you a more precise count if you want."

He nodded. "Exactly. We only lived together for eighteen months. I didn't want to be dead longer than you knew me. This was my last opportunity to tell you before I'm finished. And because I wanted to know if you would help me. I understand if you don't want to, if you have your own life and better things to do…"

She cut him off. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Of course I'll help. What do you need me to do?"

"Let me show you," he said, breaking into his typical I-have-a-case grin and going to pull a few files out of his bag.

"This is Sebastian Moran," he said, opening the files in front of her. "He was Moriarty's second in command, and has taken over the organization since his boss' death. He's an ex-military sniper, a very good one, but he's not a leader on anywhere near the same level as Moriarty. The organization is falling apart, and he's getting desperate. He's well protected, though, and I'm saving him for last. That's what I'll need your help with. I'm still working on how, though. Until then, I need you to go about your life as normal. Don't tell anyone that you've seen me."

"Of course," Jo agreed. "Anything you need."

"You can keep those files," he said stifling a yawn. "You'll want to know as much about Moran as you can."

She nodded. "Of course. And you need more sleep." Sherlock looked like he was going to protest, but, after a moment, he just nodded.

"Alright, you get back to bed, and I'll clean this up," she said, smiling at him. Sherlock did as she asked, lying quietly as he listened to the comforting noises of Jo working in the kitchen. When she finished she went around closing the blinds, darkening the room.

He caught her wrist as she walked by. "Stay. Please."

"Alright," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "Just give me a second." He nodded and let her go, watching her go and pick up a book before coming back and settling herself on the mattress beside him, leaning her back against the wall.

A few minutes later he reached up and touched her half finished tattoo. "You got this for me, didn't you?"

"Yes," she answered, not looking up from her book. "You're one of the most important things that has ever happened to me; I thought that you deserved some sort of physical reminder."

"I could do the same for you," he said, letting his hand fall back down. "If you wanted me to."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. And I don't need you to permanently scar your body for me; in fact, I'd much prefer it if you avoided getting any more scars at all."

"I'll do my best," he promised sleepily.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Oh look, I've finally updated on Sunday again because I've finally remembered how to tell the days of the week (or I put a reminder on my phone and it buzzed accusingly at me). Anyway, I hope you like the chapter and reviews are always greeted with appropriate flailing and fangirling. **

* * *

Jo couldn't help but acknowledge how good it felt to be back on British soil after two months in Iraq. Mary had promised to pick her up at the airport, and she was eager to see her friend again. Customs was always tedious — but was especially so after spending such an extended time in a place like Iraq — and the baggage claim made her wish that she had carried her bag with her instead of checking it. But despite all of that, she was still able to greet her friend with a hug and a genuine smile. They shared a cab back to Mary's flat and Jo couldn't decide what she was looking forward to more: a hot shower, a decent meal, or a soft bed. Mary held her hand the entire trip, and Jo felt a twinge of regret knowing what she had to do that night.

When they finally got to the flat Jo went in to take a shower and Mary ordered them food — Indian this time. They ate on the couch, sipping surprisingly good wine — Mary had always refused to buy cheap wine, even when they were in Uni. When they finished Mary insisted on cleaning up herself, leaving Jo to doze on the sofa.

Mary woke her up with a kiss. After the brief moment it took for her to reorient herself, Jo relaxed under her friend's caresses. She let her mind go blank, focusing only on what she was doing and the moment she was doing it in. They snogged lazily on the sofa for a long time. Jo would have been more than happy to stay like that for hours, but when Mary suggested that they move to the bedroom, Jo went without complaint, pulling Mary close and letting her strip her down to nothing. They tumbled into bed, pushing and pulling at each other in all the right ways. Jo was still exhausted, but her heart was pounding and she wouldn't have stopped for the world.

When they finished, Jo rolled onto her back, wrapping her arms around Mary's shoulders as the other woman rested her head on her chest. She stared up at the ceiling as her breathing and heart rate returned to normal and tried to think of how she was going to say what she knew she had to. She had been thinking about that for the entire two months she had been gone, and she wasn't any closer to coming up with a good way to even start the conversation. Luckily, Mary started it for her.

"Alright what is it?" she asked, looking up at her friend even with her head still pillowed on her chest. "You seem shockingly tense for someone who's supposed to be in the middle of post-coital bliss. I hope my skills haven't been slipping.

Jo rolled her eyes. "Stop fishing for compliments, it's below you; you know that you were, as usual, fantastic. There is something I have to talk to you about, though."

"Go ahead," Mary answered. "There's no time like the present.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking. "Mary, I'm sorry but I don't think I can do this anymore."

Mary took a deep breath of her own. "Okay. Can I ask why? Have you found someone else?"

"Not exactly," she answered with a sigh. "You know that I've been dating, but it's just casual. I haven't really found anyone that I want to even slightly commit to."

She nodded. "So then what is it? I don't understand. I thought we were having fun. At least, I was having fun."

"I've been having fun too," Jo assured her. "You're one of my best friends: of course I love spending time with you. And god knows you're amazing in bed, so I certainly don't have any complaints there.

"I wish I could give you a better reason, I really do, but I just can't right now. I need you to trust me. I promise that I'll explain everything as soon as I can, but I can't right now."

Mary nodded again. "Okay, whatever you say. It's not like this was anything other than something we did in our spare time. We'll still hang out, though; right?"

"Of course," Jo answered seriously. "I wouldn't give up spending time with you for anything; even if we're not shagging. You know that."

"And one last cuddle couldn't hurt," She added, giving her friend a squeeze. "I mean, you don't have to leave right now. You can wait 'til morning, right?"

"One last cuddle would be perfect," she agreed, squeezing Mary back.

Mary smiled. "Good."

"Besides," Jo joked, "your sheets are much nicer than mine. I'm really going to miss them."

The brunette rolled her eyes. "I'll have to tell them where I bought them; you can get your own." Jo chuckled but let the conversation drop, content to get some much needed sleep.

A few minutes later Mary spoke again, her voice soft and cautious. "You seem much happier Jo. If you haven't found someone new, then what gives. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that you're happy, but I don't understand."

Jo shrugged, hating that she had to lie. "I don't know. I guess that spending two months in a country that has literally been ravaged by war just put things in perspective for me. I mean, I lost a really good friend, and that's tragic. But life goes on; it's not the end of the world. And when push comes to shove, there are a lot more awful things that could happen to someone.

"And besides, it's not like my life is over. There are still things, really good things, that I can do with my life. This job is really important; I'm helping people that really need it. So like I said, I guess I just needed some perspective." Mary just hummed, and Jo wished she could tell if that meant she believed her or not. She fell asleep before she could figure it out.

Before he left Sherlock had promised that he would do his best to keep in touch with Jo through Mycroft; he wouldn't be able to call her or give her too many details, but he'd try to let her know that he was okay every few weeks or so. She hadn't really expected to get anything while she was in Iraq, but she was hoping to get something once she was back home. She tried to wait patiently, but week after week passed and there was still nothing. Soon, the three month mark that Sherlock had given her came and went and she had still heard nothing from either brother; she decided that she had done enough waiting and that it was time to be a little more proactive.

So she gave Mycroft a call, and then another and then another; when she realized that he was never going to answer her calls, she paid a visit to the Diogenes Club, where she knew he spent his Saturdays. She waited in the lobby all day with no word from him; she did that for three consecutive Saturdays before giving it up. She even tried going to the office she had met him in when she was trying to deal with the Bruce-Partington Plan fiasco, but she was told that he had moved locations and left no forwarding address. After that she gave up; she had run out of ideas and was smart enough to know that if a Holmes didn't want to speak to you, then you weren't going to have whatever conversation you wanted to have. She did her best to just go about her life as Sherlock had asked her to and not think about what the brothers' silence might mean, but after two more months passed and Sherlock's three months turned into five, she couldn't help but wonder if something had gone horribly wrong.

She still spent a lot of time with Mary; although not quite as much as she used to. They still had dinner at least once a week and talked almost every day. Yet Jo still found herself pulling away again. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about what was happening and how it felt as if she had lost Sherlock all over again, but she had promised not to tell anyone about his reappearance, and so she suffered in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Jo was absolutely exhausted. It had been a little over five months since she had seen or heard from Sherlock, and it was all she could do not to obsess over all the horrific things that could have happened to him. She did her best to focus on other things: she was planning another clinic opening (this time in Georgia) and had taken to having dinner with Lestrade once a week to discuss his cases (he was currently trying to figure out how Ronald Adair, heir to his father's business empire, had been murdered in his locked house in his room, which had also been locked from the inside). She was also working as many shifts at the clinic as she could manage in an attempt to stay busy enough to keep her mind off of Sherlock. But nothing really worked for long; she still ended up alone at night, unable to sleep and thinking of all the horrible ways he could have been killed.

She was walking to the nearest tube station after a late shift at the clinic had run even later due to a backlog of paperwork, stifling yawns and not really paying attention to where she was going when she ran straight into someone hard enough to make her shoulder ache. She stumbled backwards and had to catch herself on a lamppost in order to avoid falling. Once she had righted herself, she looked over and saw an elderly man sprawled on the ground surrounded by books he must have been carrying in his arms.

"Oh my God," she gasped, lunging forward and dropping to her knees. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

The man practically growled at her. "I'm fine, no thanks to you. Now sod off."

"Let me just help you with your things," she insisted, grabbing for the books. "I really am sorry about all of this."

He yanked the books out of her hands. "I don't need your help; now piss off!" Something in the man's voice made Jo pull back and after a few more stammered apologies she stumbled back into the darkness, moving towards the tube station as quickly as she possibly could without actually breaking into a run.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally got home and was able to put a locked door in between her and the rest of the world. She had yet to stop for dinner but she ignored her growling stomach, unsure if she wanted to spend the time and energy required to find food. She collapsed on the sofa she had acquired after breaking things off with Mary and was simultaneously thankful and disgruntled that she had made the executive decision not to keep any alcohol in the flat. She had finally decided to just go to bed and worry about her other bodily functions later when there was a persistent knock at her door. She sighed and got up, expecting to find either Lestrade or Mary, but was more than a little surprised to see the old man from earlier.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, firming her grip on the door.

He smiled disarmingly. "I wanted to apologize for how I treated you earlier. My behaviour was abominable."

"It's fine," she answered tersely, hoping that this wouldn't end with a call to Lestrade. "I knocked you over; I didn't take it personally."

He shuffled forward a bit. "Still, I would like to give you a token of my sincere apology: one of my books. I'm sure you can find one that you're interested in if you let me show them to you. It will only take a minute, I promise." She gave him a once over and was able to see that it wasn't going to be easy to get rid of him.

"Fine," she said warily. "I'll just make us some tea. You can have a seat on the sofa."

He thanked her, and she waited until she had seen him sit down before going into the kitchen, keeping an ear out for any sign trouble. Instead of making tea, she slowly opened the one of the drawers and thanked her lucky stars that she had decided to store her browning in the kitchen this week. Due to the sparse design of her flat, there was a direct line-of-sight from the kitchen to the main room, and so all she had to do was turn around and level the gun at her visitor. But instead of the creepy old man sitting on her couch, she saw Sherlock Holmes standing in her sitting room.

It was just as shocking as the first time it had happened, and her knees went wobbly. She tried to take a step towards him, but her foot got caught on a table leg and she fell, hitting her head on a kitchen chair on the way down. She lay there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She was just about to start pushing herself up when she felt Sherlock's hands on her arms, pulling her into a sitting position, carefully slipping the gun out of her grasp as he did.

"Christ Jo, I'm sorry," he said, examining the cut on her head. "I had no idea you would be so… affected."

She shook her head. "I'm fine. You just startled me."

"I can see that," he answered. "I'll just go get your med-kit. It's in the bathroom, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but don't worry about it Sherlock. I'm fine, really." He ignored her and went and got the kit anyway; he knelt down in front of her and carefully cleaned the small cut on her forehead.

"How long have you been back in London?" She asked quietly as he placed a bandage on her head.

He shrugged. "Almost two weeks. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner; Moran has been looking for me."

"He's in London too?" She asked, purposefully not looking at him.

He nodded. "Yes; although he's not putting nearly as much energy into hiding as I am. You've even seen signs of him."

"Really? Where?" She asked, still not looking at him.

"Ronald Adair," he answered. "Moran's a gambler, and he cheats. Adair caught him, so Moran killed him. It would be boring, really, if it wasn't for what he killed him with. I told you that Moran is a sniper: well, he's built himself an untraceable, air-powered dart—rifle. He shot Adair through his open window. It was a good shot, but other than that, rather dull; he doesn't have Moriarty's creativity, or flair for the dramatic."

Jo snorted. "Let's be thankful for small mercies. I'll take a run of the mill psychopath any day; I don't think I have the energy to deal with another Moriarty right now."

"You have a point," he said, smiling. "Anyway, we should have this whole thing cleared up within a week, and then things can finally get back to normal."

She rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, life with you is never normal, or predictable. Now, have you eaten dinner yet? Because I'm starving."

"No, I haven't eaten yet," he answered, still smiling. "I've been a bit busy."

She nodded, standing up. "Alright then. I'll just make us some supper." He agreed and moved to sit in one of the chairs, watching as she started to pull out the ingredients for a quick stir fry. She moved quickly and efficiently, focusing all of her attention on what she was doing. He took in the tense line of her shoulder and the way that she was almost imperceptibly favoring her right leg and was easily able to deduce that she was upset, probably angry. He had learned early on in their friendship that when it came to Jo Watson, it was by far easier, and more productive, to simply ask what was bothering her and then try and fix it, rather than try and figure out what was wrong on his own. He had also learned that she was more than willing to talk about it if someone else had done something to make her angry, but that she tended to keep it to herself when he was the one who had upset her.

"Are you angry with me?" He asked, deciding to cut right to the chase.

Jo froze, tensing even more. "Drop it, Sherlock. It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," he counted, his heart rate increasing. "Why are you angry with me?"

She shook her head, still not moving. "I don't want to talk about this. I'll get over it."

"Is it because I scared you?" He asked, quickly running through their interactions that day. "Or because I yelled at you earlier? I'm sorry about that, but I wasn't sure if I was being followed or not, and I didn't want to put you in danger."

She sighed. "I'm not angry about that; I get it. Just drop this; I'll be fine."

He shook his head. "I don't want to drop it; I want to make it better! I don't understand what I could have done to piss you off already!"

"You disappeared for five months Sherlock," she snapped, finally turning around to face him. "I thought you were dead! You can't keep doing this to me; I don't know how many times I can mourn for you before it breaks me."

Sherlock looked at her blankly for a few seconds before slowly asking, "What do you mean 'disappeared?' I know that I wasn't able to give you many details or write as often as I had wanted to, but I did try to send enough letters so that you wouldn't worry about me too much."

"I didn't get any letters," she answered, her voice quiet. "I didn't get anything."

He shook his head. "I don't understand. I gave them to Mycroft; I made him promise that he would get them to you."

"Mycroft wouldn't even answer my calls," she said softly. "I tried everything I could think of — I spent hours at the Diogenes Club — but he wouldn't talk to me. Why wouldn't he give me your letters?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Why does Mycroft do anything?" After a momentary pause, he added, "I did try, Jo, and I'm sorry that you were worried; that's not what I wanted for you."

"It's alright," she said, smiling at him. "It's not your fault. You did your best to keep me in the loop, and I can't be angry with you because of what your brother did. And you're not actually dead, so there's no harm done." She turned back around and continued making their dinner.

Once they had sat down with their meal, Jo spoke up again, asking, "So what's the plan? You said that this whole thing would be over within a week."

"Yes; Moran knows I'm here, so all I have to do is draw him out, which is what I need you for," he said, giving her a smile.

Jo frowned slightly, trying to understand. "So I'm what? Bait?"

Sherlock paled, shaking his head. "No! That is definitely not the plan!" He took a deep breath and continued. "What I need you is to publicly investigate Adair's death: visit the crime-scene, talk to his friends and acquaintances, anything you think Lestrade will let you get away with. I know that Moran did it, but you're presence on the case will make him nervous. That's the easy part; it's what comes next that's tricky.

"I've already spoken with Mrs. Hudson, and she's agreed to go visit her sister, for safety's sake; she's also given me your set of keys to Baker Street, which you'll be needing. And I have blueprints, which we'll need; they're in one of those stupid books."

He moved to get up but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Eat your dinner first. There will be plenty of time for scheming after." He agreed and relaxed into his seat again.

"I've missed your cooking," he said after a few minutes, smiling across the table at his friend.

Jo rolled her eyes. "Yeah right. You hardly ever eat my cooking unless it's three in the morning and you've finished experimenting or thinking or whatever it is that you do, and realize that there's nothing to eat in the flat except my cooking."

"That doesn't mean I don't enjoy it," he answered, still smiling. "And I've found that I miss most things about you. I've even found myself becoming oddly nostalgic at the lack of ridiculous underthings hanging from the shower curtain rod."

She laughed. "I'm allowed to dry my bras in my own bathroom. And if we're talking about strange bouts of nostalgia, then I think I have you beat; I've fond myself missing the fact that my kitchen is no longer a science lab."

"Really?" He asked, looking a bit too mischievous for comfort. "Does that mean that you won't complain when I start my experiments back up?"

She shook her head, still laughing. "No such luck; I've missed arguing about them far too much for that." Sherlock just smiled fondly, not really knowing what else to say, but happy that she hadn't contradicted his assumption that they would soon be sharing a kitchen again.


	8. Chapter 8

Jo's heart was pounding as she let herself into 221 Baker Street, carefully locking the door behind her. It was just after midnight and unnervingly quiet for a place she usually associated with noise of some sort, whether it was Mrs. Hudson puttering around her flat, Sherlock's experiments, or hauntingly beautiful violin playing. She quickly went through Sherlock's plan in her head again, just to make sure that she knew what to do because once she got upstairs there could be no hesitation. She took one last deep breath before quickly climbing the stairs and entering what still felt a bit like home. Even though she had thought she had been prepared, she still stopped short at the sight. She hadn't been back to the flat since moving all of her things into a storage unit right after Sherlock's funeral, so she was more than a little shocked to see that everything was exactly as it had been, up to and including the skull on the mantle next to the knifed down letters and the violin case leaning up against the wall. It took her breath away, but she quickly recovered and went about doing as Sherlock had instructed.

There was a (rather creepy, in Jo's opinion) Sherlock-mannequin sitting in Sherlock's chair, and the first thing that Jo had to do was turn it on. She followed the (annoyingly detailed) instructions Sherlock had given her, smirking just a bit when she got it right on the first try despite the cracks the detective had made about her lack of technical abilities. She arranged the lighting as Sherlock had told her to (the whole set up was designed to throw "Sherlock's" shadow into relief once the curtains were open). She took a moment to breathe deeply and hope that Sherlock was right about Moran having no interest in shooting her (which really was shortsighted on his part because she had a vested interest in shooting the bastard as many times as she possibly could). She carefully opened the curtains, revealing the pull-down shade that Sherlock had had installed for the occasion; she then pushed the shade aside and looked out, scanning the street for a few moments before letting it fall back into place. She went and sat in what had been her chair, pretending to talk to "Sherlock" for a few minutes before getting up and climbing the stairs to what had been her room. She sat on the edge of the bed closed her eyes, stamping down all of the emotions that were trying to flood her. They would just get in the way, and she had more important things to worry about than why the flat still looked and smelled the same and whether or not that made moving back in a good idea or not (because of course she knew that he was going to ask, and if he asked there's nothing she'd be able to do to stop herself from saying yes).

She waited the prescribed twenty minutes before carefully sneaking out of flat the way Sherlock had told her to, wishing the entire time that she had more experience with this than just looking at blueprints. She took a circuitous walk that lasted about ten minutes and landed her behind the house directly across from their flat, which she again snuck into via a route she had only seen on a blueprint. She walked silently through the house, unsure of whether or not Moran was already there, and made her way carefully to the room Sherlock had told her to meet him. She slipped inside the door and stopped, barely daring to breathe as squinted into the shadows in an attempt to make sure that the lump she saw by the window was, in fact, her partner in crime and not a psychopathic sniper. When she was reasonably sure that it was who it was supposed to be, she whispered his name and repressed a smile at the way he jumped.

"You startled me," he whispered, waiving her over to the chair next to him. "I didn't hear you come in."

She sat down gratefully, rolling her eyes. "That was rather the point. Is Moran here yet?"

"Probably," he answered with a shrug. "I haven't seen or heard any sign from him, but he was probably here before I was. I'm willing to bet that he's in the room above us." She hummed lightly and fell silent, focusing her attention on the shadow in the window across the street and wondering what exactly it was about faking his death that had made Sherlock more honest.

Sherlock gave up on focusing on the stakeout about five minutes after Jo sat down; Jo was better than him at stakeouts anyway; she had the patience of a soldier and a remarkable attention to detail as long as someone told her what to look for. He kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but he eventually gave up and allowed himself to stare since she wasn't paying any attention to him. She was breathing so quietly that he could barely hear her, but it was as slow and even as if she was just having a quiet night in instead of staking out the site of her best friend's murder with her supposedly dead best friend. He had no way of gaging her heartbeat without cluing her in to what he was doing, but he couldn't help wondering whether her heart was pounding with adrenaline or if she had forced it steady so she could shoot between beats like a sniper; in fact, he wondered if she could manage to shoot between her heart beats. He's never even tried to do it himself — though he's fairly certain he couldn't manage it — but he's never really been sure just what sort of military training she's had. Mycroft had offered to show him her files, he'd even brought them with him as proof of his sincerity, but Sherlock had steadfastly refused to touch them; Jo never talked about her time in the military, and finding out about it from any other source seemed like a betrayal. After fifteen minutes of sitting in silence, speaking somehow felt like a necessity (and Sherlock wondered when that had happened because it certainly had never been the case before).

"Could you make this shot?" He asked quietly, nodding towards the window.

She smiled, not taking her eyes off her target. "In the room above us with a rifle? Definitely. Maybe even with my Browning."

"And what about from here?" He questioned, breaking into a grin at her confidence.

She shrugged. "It would be difficult, but I think I could with a rifle. I wouldn't like to try it with my handgun, though." He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say to that, but he didn't get the chance to find out because just then there was the sound of shattering glass and the Sherlock-mannequin's shadow disappeared from the window.

The pair jumped up as quietly as they could, and Sherlock led the way upstairs, reveling in the feeling of Jo's steady presence at his back. They found Moran packing up his rifle, and Sherlock took advantage of the moment and lunged forward. Jo quickly joined the fray, hoping to get a clear shot, but Moran knocked the Browning out of her hand and across the room early on. Even so, it was two against one and Sherlock and Jo worked well together, even though it had been almost two years since they last fought side by side. They subdued the sniper and Sherlock secured him with zip-ties from his coat. Jo didn't bother even looking for the light switch; there was enough light coming in from the open window for her to see Sherlock's grin, and that was more than enough for her. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed Lestrade's number by memory, practically giddy that she got to do this again.

Sherlock moved back into the shadows when they heard Lestrade enter the house; Jo rolled her eyes and told him that his flair for the dramatic was going to give the DI a heart attack. Even so, she didn't point out the man lurking in the corner, and carefully explained how and why Moran had killed Ronald Adair. She then told him about Moran's connection to Moriarty and about how he had been caught.

Lestrade nodded, still looking a bit lost. "So I'm arresting him for the murder of Ronald Adair."

"Yes," she agreed happily. "And for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade froze. "Jo, I can't arrest someone for trying to kill someone who's already dead."

"It's a good thing I'm not dead then," Sherlock announced smugly, stepping out of the shadows. "Not even on paper as of three weeks ago."

"What the holy hell?!" Lestrade yelled, almost losing his grip on Moran. "You seriously faked your own death? Are you fucking kidding me, Holmes?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "Sorry. It was a necessary evil."

He shook his head, sighing deeply. "I'd deck you, but my hands are a bit full at the moment. I'm glad you're back though."

"Me too," he answered quietly, looking pleased.

They shared a look before Lestrade shook his head and slipped back into professionalism. "Right. I'll need you two to come down tomorrow morning and give your statements. Don't forget. And we'll have to go out to dinner sometime; to celebrate."

"Sounds good," Jo answered with a smile. "And I'll make sure we make it down tomorrow." Greg nodded and then led Moran away. There were still plenty of police officers around, going through the evidence in both the vacant house and their sitting room.

Jo bit back a yawn. "Christ I'm tired. I'd forgotten how exhausting this is."

"Do you want to go back to your flat? I can call you a cab," Sherlock answered helpfully.

She shook her head. "It's a bit late for that, and I don't really trust cabbies anymore. Unless you want the flat to yourself."

"No," he answered quickly. "I mean, I've had a bit too much time to myself lately."

She smiled at him. "Alright. Do you want to go see if we can find some tea in the kitchen and wait for the police to get out of our flat?"

"That sounds good to me," he answered happily. "Let's go home." She couldn't help but grin as she followed him out.

It was three in the morning by the time they had the flat to themselves. The sitting room was a disaster and it was far too late for them to even consider trying to clean it up, so they were in the kitchen, drinking the tea that they had miraculously been able to find.

After a few minutes of silence Jo shook her head, looking around the cluttered flat. "It looks exactly the same. Why does it look the same?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered simply. "He paid Mrs. Hudson to leave it. He told her that it was sentiment, but I'm pretty sure that she guessed the real reason; she didn't look all that surprised to see me." Jo just nodded, too tired to come up with something else to say.

After a beat or two Sherlock finally got up the courage to ask, "So will you move back? To Baker Street, I mean."

"Of course," Jo answered, her heart pounding even though she didn't have to think about her answer. "Where else would I go? I only ever left because I didn't have any other choice."

Sherlock grinned. "Good. That's… very good. I'll help you move."

"You better," she answered, grinning as well before it was cut off by a yawn. "Okay, I'm really going to bed now. I'll see you in the morning. Or maybe the afternoon."

He chuckled. "Goodnight; I'm going to stay up for a bit. Do you mind if I play? It's been a while since I've had the chance."

"I'd like that," she answered quietly. "I've missed your violin." He nodded, looking fond as well but not saying anything else, and got up to retrieve his instrument.

Jo went upstairs, silently thanking Mrs. Hudson for keeping bedding on her bed. She stripped as quickly as she could before collapsing on the mattress, barely mustering up the energy required to pull the duvet over her shoulders. She didn't sleep though, despite how utterly exhausted she felt; instead, she listened to Sherlock play his violin until she literally couldn't anymore.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock closed the third (and hopefully final) box marked 'Kitchen' and struggled with the packing tape until it was finally sealed properly. He sighed, leaning back against the counter, and hoped that they were done with this whole "packing" thing; for a woman with so few personal belongings, Jo was remarkably particular about how they went into boxes. He still smiled, though, when she came out of the bathroom with what he was pretty sure was the last box.

"Is that it?" He asked, unable to keep the obvious hopefulness out of his voice. "I can call the cab?"

Jo nodded, grinning. "That's it. Call away." Sherlock had just got his phone out of his pocket when Jo spoke up again, her tone frantic. "Wait! I can't leave yet."

Sherlock froze. "What do you mean you can't leave? What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing's wrong, I promise. And we can go in a few minutes. There's just something I have to say to you first."

"Alright," he said, Jo's assurances calming him down almost immediately. "What is it? You know you can tell me anything; you don't have to look like you're about to go into battle or something."

Jo took a deep breath, not even bothering to attempt a smile at what was really a rather lame joke. "So after you — jumped — I realized that I had a lot of regrets about the time we spent together. But what I regretted most of all was that there were things that I never said to you: things that I probably, definitely, should have said. But I was too much of a coward to say them because I was afraid of losing you. But I've already lost you, and so what the hell. I wanted to do it now, before we got back to our real lives. Because at least if it goes as horribly wrong as I think it probably will, we can just leave it here." She paused, taking another deep breath before continuing. "Sherlock, I'm in love with you." She stopped talking, breathing heavily, and waited for Sherlock to say something, anything. When it became clear that the man was well and truly speechless, she couldn't hold back the tide of panicked words that came flooding out.

"Look, it's not as if this has to change anything. I've been in love with you for ages, and it has never interfered with our friendship or anything. It's just that I couldn't risk something happening to you without you knowing exactly what you mean to me. And it's not like I expect you to return the feeling or do anything about it; I just wanted…" Sherlock cut her off with a kiss, unable to think of what else to do. She had been in the middle of saying something ridiculous — everything after 'I love you' was a bit of a blur — so it was messy and sloppy and uncoordinated and a little bit painful, but that was absolutely perfect because it was Jo. She was kissing him back, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that it hurt, and he couldn't imagine anything better than that. He didn't break off the kiss until his lungs were screaming for air, and even then he only pulled back a few inches, his hands still cradling his friend's face.

"I-I, you too. I love you too," he said breathlessly, stumbling helplessly over the words as his heart constricted painfully. "Is it supposed to feel like this? Because I think I might be suffering from a previously undiagnosed heart condition.

Jo laughed, her blue eyes practically dancing. "Yeah, it's supposed to feel like that."

He nodded, not knowing what else to say, and kissed her again. This time it was even better because she had seen it coming and was able to coordinate her movements with his. She moved her hands to his hair, and he slipped one arm around her waist in order to pull her even closer. Suddenly standing up wasn't anywhere near a good idea and they weren't anywhere close to being close enough, and he was being sarcastic the first time he said it, but christ, breathing really was boring because this was so much better even when his lungs were screaming for air. He began moving, pushing Jo towards the bed and hoping that they got there before his knees gave out, which was rapidly becoming a legitimate worry somewhere in the back of his mind. Thankfully, the flat wasn't that big, and it didn't take very long at all before the back of Jo's legs were hitting the mattress. She laid back willingly, shuffling backwards until she her legs were no longer hanging off the edge and pulling him down on top of her. And this, this was so much better than before, even if there wasn't nearly enough skin involved. He moved down to kiss at Jo's neck, loving the gasping sounds that that drew out of her, and slipped his hand under her shirt, spreading his fingers out over as much of her stomach as possible. With his free hand he reached down to undo her trousers, fumbling as he tried to kiss her at the same time.

He had just got the button undone when she pulled away, pushing lightly at his shoulders. "Wait, wait. We need to stop."

"What? Why?" He asked, sitting back a bit so that he could look at her while he attempted some semblance of intelligent conversation. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. I just don't want to do this here. I want to go home." Sherlock nodded, remembering what she had said about separating her confession from their real life.

"Alright," he agreed, taking deep, gulping breaths. "I'll call a cab; just give me a minute." She nodded as he rolled to the side to lay beside her; he couldn't help but grin even as he attempted to get rid of his erection by sheer force of will.

The cab ride to Baker Street was ridiculously awkward. Sherlock and Jo sat on opposite sides of the car in absolute silence, carefully not getting anywhere close to touching. The kept looking, though, and blushing when they got caught. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he actually blushed, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Jo just smiled and bit her lip to avoid telling her friend just how adorable he looked when his cheeks were flushed.

Once they reached their destination, it didn't take them long to move Jo's few boxes up to their flat, and soon they were standing awkwardly in the sitting room, looking anywhere but at each other. Jo's heart was pounding in her chest. Everything seemed so much more complicated now that they were home, and she couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock's hesitation meant that he was going to take it all back. When she had started her confession, she had been completely willing to keep things the way that they were, but now that she had been offered a taste of what could be, she wasn't sure that could ignore how she felt. She was just about to ask where they were supposed to go from here when Sherlock reached over and hooked one of his impossibly long arms around her waist, pulling her close against him.

They ended up in Sherlock's bedroom, which somehow seemed natural. This time, it was Sherlock who was pressed against the mattress as Jo kissed him feverishly and attacked the buttons on his ridiculously tight dress shirt. He huffed out a breath of laughter at the triumphant noise she made when she finally got them all undone. She leaned back, resting her weight against his thighs as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders before pulling her own top over her head as well. Suddenly, the urgency faded and they just stared at each other. Sherlock reached up and reverently ran his fingers over her tattoos. Jo reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, pulling it off unselfconsciously.

"You're so beautiful," he said, unable to keep the words back.

She flushed and ducked her head in an unexpected bout of shyness. "You're biased."

"Probably," he answered with a shrug. "But that doesn't change the fact that I think you're gorgeous."

Jo smiled, still blushing. "You're pretty good looking yourself."

This time it was Sherlock's cheeks that colored, but he was thankfully saved from having to come up with an answer by Jo leaning down to kiss him again. Within minutes they were both back to fumbling with the other's clothing, their arms getting tangled and their hands getting distracted by the expanse of skin available above the waist. The finally were able to shimmy out of their trousers, though, breaking down into giggles at the ridiculousness of trying to undress without separating. Once they were down to just their pants, Sherlock flipped them over, pressing her down into the mattress and luxuriating in the feel of her skin against his. He slipped his fingers under the elastic of her underwear and Jo moaned, tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut.

A few minutes later she looked up at him again and pulled him into another kiss before asking, "Do you have condoms?" It took him an embarrassingly long time to process what she was saying, but eventually he nodded and leaned over to rifle through the drawers of his bedside table. He was sure that he had bought a box at some point, but it wasn't there and his searching was just starting to get really frantic when Jo stopped him with a comforting hand on his arm.

"It's okay," she said softly. "I have some. I'll be right back." She gave him one last kiss before slipping out of the bed and out of his room.

Sherlock took deep, heaving breaths as he listened to her move around the flat. Eventually, he felt a bit more level headed and sat up, removing his boxer shorts and sitting on the edge of the bed. Jo came back holding a slightly crumpled box and grinning. She tossed it to him before wriggling out of her own pants and coming to stand between his legs. Sherlock reached up and cupped his hands around her hips and grinned, his pulse pounding in his throat as she leaned down to kiss him again.

Sherlock carefully ran his fingers over the scar on Jo's shoulder, keeping his touch light in order to avoid waking his friend. He felt content and slightly sleepy, happy to stay exactly exactly as he was for the foreseeable future. He knew that he should feel at least a little disgusted at the feeling of so many mixed bodily fluids dried on his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything beyond the warm glow of happiness emanating from somewhere in the center of his chest. He rested his head on Jo's pillow and pressed his nose against the nape of her neck, breathing deeply in a way that he really hoped wasn't creepy. He had the sudden realization that he would be perfectly happy to lie like this every day for the rest of his life.

Jo shifted, turning over in his arms and smiling sleepily up at him. "What time is it?"

"Half four," he replied quietly, not really wanting to disturb the pleasant stillness that surrounded them like a cocoon.

She sighed. "We should get up. We have to meet everybody at Angelo's at six, and we both need to shower before we leave."

"Fine," he answered, scrunching up his nose to show his displeasure. "But Angelo is going to smother me, and I'm still not convinced that Lestrade isn't going to deck me; he still wants to, you know."

She pulled him into a quick kiss that ran a bit long. "Don't worry, I've got lots of practice keeping people from punching you, and you have far too pretty a face for me to let someone ruin it on my watch." He blushed again and leaned in for another kiss in order to hide it, wondering when he would stop being so affected by Jo saying things like that. A surprisingly large part of him hoped that he never really got used to it.


	10. Chapter 10

For once, Jo woke up before Sherlock did. She had only been back at Baker street for about a week, and they were still trying to fit back into some sort of pattern. She had been working, albeit with a slightly less ridiculous schedule, but Sherlock hadn't been working on anything beyond a few mild experiments in the kitchen. Before, this would have filled her with dread, or a sense of vague foreboding at the very least, but now Sherlock actually seemed content to stay around the house, playing his violin or reading or watching crap telly with Mrs. Hudson. And Jo knew that things would never really be the same as before, and not just because there were almost two years of pain and loneliness separating them. Now, they ate dinner with their feet tangled together underneath the table, and when they watched telly or spent the night reading, Sherlock leaned his head on her shoulder and occupied himself by playing with her fingers instead of fidgeting. Jo wasn't really sure how long this calm was going to last, or even if she really wanted it to last at all, but she was determined to enjoy it while she could.

Sherlock had asked her to keep their relationship a secret. She really didn't mind — especially when she saw how genuinely shy the man was about even the simplest signs of affection — and the people who really mattered were going to know anyway: Mrs. Hudson had walked in on them cuddling on the couch, but she wasn't entirely convinced that it was a new development; Mary didn't know, but she would as soon as she saw the two of them together; Jo had yet to hear from Mycroft, but she was sure that his creepy pseudo-omniscience would extend into Sherlock's personal life; Molly had given them knowing looks all through Sherlock's 'Welcome Home' dinner, making Jo wonder just how much Sherlock had shared with her during the time they spent together directly following his faked suicide; and despite all allegations to the contrary, Lestrade was a good detective — he would figure it out. And Jo really couldn't complain when she woke up every morning to the sight of Sherlock watching her with such a look of fixed adoration that it took her breath away.

This was the first time that she had woken up before Sherlock, and as much as she wanted to take advantage of the situation, she really had to pee. Not bothering to try and find something to wear in the jumble of clothes they had left on the floor the night before, she grabbed the sheet from where it had been separated from the rest of the bedding during the night. She carefully made her way out of Sherlock's room and up the stairs, remembering to skip the ones that creaked. After using the toilet and cleaning her teeth, she decided that she was in the mood for coffee and headed down to the kitchen, debating whether she should cook or try and convince Sherlock to go out for breakfast when he woke up. Her plans for the morning were derailed, however, when she saw Mycroft Holmes sitting in his brother's chair as she passed through the sitting room to get to the kitchen.

"Good morning Doctor Watson," he said imperiously, not looking even slightly disturbed at her less-than-fully-dressed appearance. "You're looking very comfortable this morning." Jo felt a sudden surge of anger at the man sitting in her flat; how dare he ignore her for some unknown reason, keep things from her that rightly belonged to her, and then show up in her flat, unannounced, and judge how she chose to dress when no one else was supposed to be looking? She quickly tamped down the emotion, though, knowing from experience just how futile it was in the face of the elder Holmes.

She rolled her eyes and retreated to the safe-ground of sarcasm. "Do you actually know how a telephone works? Because I'm sincerely beginning to doubt that you even understand the concept."

"Is my brother aware of the full extent of your relationship with Miss Morstan?" Mycroft asked, ignoring her question in favor of his own agenda for their conversation

Jo narrowed her eyes. "My relationship with Ms. Morstan is none of your business. Neither is my relationship with your brother, for that matter."

"Your relationship with my brother is very much my business," he answered, his tone gaining a dangerous edge. "Which is why your relationship with Mary Morstan is so concerning; you've never really cared much for monogamy, have you Doctor Watson?" She glared at him but was saved from having to answer by the sounds of Sherlock moving around in his room.

"Sherlock, your brother is here," she called in warning, wondering if that was more or less of an incentive for him to actually put clothing on before coming out into the rest of the flat — not that she really cared either way.

Sherlock came out wrapped in his signature blue silk dressing gown. "I would have thought that breaking and entering was below you, Mycroft."

"And I would have thought that such base desire was below you, brother," Mycroft answered smugly. "Such obvious sentimentality is not a strength."

"I'm going to go make coffee," Jo announced, seeing no other alternative to punching Mycroft in the nose; she just hoped that whatever damage Mycroft managed to inflict during his visit would not be permanent. She listened to the sound of their voices, and even though she couldn't quite make out what they were saying, she could tell that Sherlock was getting very agitated, very quickly. Mycroft left just as the coffee finished brewing; although Jo wouldn't have made him a cup even if he had stayed.

Jo walked out into the sitting room and found Sherlock sitting in his chair with his knees drawn up to his chest. She set both of their mugs down on the desk and perched on the arm of his chairs, running her fingers lightly through his tangled curls. She didn't say anything, knowing that it wouldn't do any good when he was like this, and simply waited patiently until his breathing had slowed down to a normal pace. When it had, she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and let her hand slide down to the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the curls there.

"What did Mycroft want?" She asked once she was sure her partner had calmed down enough to be able to discuss his brother's visit.

He shrugged, moving his hand to grip tightly at her sheet. "He just wanted to reiterate just how dangerous a weakness sentiment really is, and that it's already been proven that you're a liability. He thinks that I should make a clean break now, before I get "overly invested" in this relationship; he even brought real estate advertisements. He doesn't think that you're committed to this; he thinks you'll leave."

"Hey," she said, using her free hand to tilt his face up so that he was looking at her. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'm definitely committed to this. And I can't argue with me being a liability, but sentiment does not have to be a weakness. There's another way, and I'll show you how it works if you'll let me."

He nodded, still holding on to her sheet so tightly his knuckles were white. "Alright. And you're not just a liability; I'm safer with you around. I'm happier. So Mycroft can just go to hell."

"Okay then," she answered, grinning down at him. "Now, I was thinking that we could go out to breakfast, but I've changed my mind since we're meeting Mary for dinner. So what do you want me to make?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, a little thrown by the sudden change in topic, before answering. "French toast."

"As you wish," she answered happily. "Just let me get dressed, and then I'll get started."

He didn't loosen his grip. "You don't have to get changed."

"You want me to cook in a sheet?" She asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugged, suddenly feeling shy and ridiculous (emotions that had become frighteningly common since he and Jo had entered this new phase of their relationship). "It looks good on you."

"It does, doesn't it," she answered with mock seriousness. "But I will have to get dressed eventually; we're going to have dinner with Mary, and I don't think Angelo would appreciate it if this is what I wore."

He looked at her appraisingly. "I don't know; I can't imagine that there are very many people who wouldn't appreciate you in a sheet. It's a very good look for you." Jo just laughed as she got up and grabbed her coffee before going into the kitchen to get breakfast started.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was surprisingly nervous about meeting Mary. She was one of the few people from Jo's past that his friend really cared about; other than Mary, the only other person she had even mentioned was her paternal grandfather, and Sherlock wasn't even sure if he was still living or not. Jo looked a little nervous as well, but he was fairly certain that that was just because she wanted them to get along. They had decided to walk to Angelo's because it wasn't that far and they were both feeling a bit restless. Jo led them to a tall brunette in a dress that was just a little bit too short, her small smile breaking into a grin.

"Have you been waiting long?" Jo asked after hugging her friend.

Mary shook her head. "No, I've only been here a few minutes; although, I'm expecting a call from the shop, so I'll have to duck out for a few minutes. Sorry."

"No problem," she answered happily, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm and pulling him forward. "Mary, I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mary Morstan."

They shook hands and Mary looked him up and down before grinning. "She could have done much worse. You're very pretty." Sherlock blushed and spluttered, not really sure what he was supposed to say to that.

Jo rolled her eyes, somehow managing to look stern and fond at the same time (an expression that Sherlock was more than familiar with; although usually it was directed at him). "Don't be awful Mary; you promised to be nice. And we don't want anyone to know, so you have to keep this to yourself."

"Oh, of course," she answered, looking chastened. "Mum's the word. You can count on me."

She smiled brightly. "We should go inside before Angelo gives the good table away."

"I called him earlier to make a reservation," Sherlock said, feeling as if he should contribute something to the conversation. "And I'm fairly certain that he would give us any table we asked for at this point."

Jo gave him that same stern/fond look as they stepped inside. "True, but that would be taking advantage, which is a bit not good." Sherlock's heart stuttered; it had been ages since he had heard those words, and the knowledge that Jo was still willing to act like it was completely normal for someone's moral compass to be another person released a ball of tension that he hadn't known he was carrying until it was gone.

Dinner was much the same as it always was, except that now there were three of them in a booth, so Sherlock and Jo were sitting just a bit too close together on the bench. Sherlock spent most of his time watching the two women interact. He had known that they had been friends since they were young, Jo had told him that much, but he hadn't quite managed to anticipate just what that meant. They finished each other's sentences and moved seamlessly from one story to another, sometimes even mirroring the other's posture and mannerisms. He was able to recognize which phrases and speech patterns they had traded and wondered which ones dated back to the beginning of their friendship. It was simultaneously fascinating and frustrating because, while there was a lot about their relationship that he was able to deduce, there was more that he was completely unable to see.

When Mary excused herself about twenty minutes into dinner to answer her phone, Jo turned to Sherlock with a hesitant smile. "We're not excluding you, are we? You've been very quiet."

"Why didn't things work out between you two?" He asked, ignoring her question. "You two seem very compatible; I can't imagine the sexual component was unsatisfactory."

Jo sighed. "For the record, I was going to tell you about my relationship with Mary; I just wanted to wait until you had met her so that you would have the necessary context."

"Okay," he answered since she looked like she needed the reassurance that he believed her; he didn't say anything else though, waiting for her to answer his question.

She sighed again, shaking her head. "We just wanted different things. We were always friends first, and we started sleeping together while we were in uni because we were young and bored and we needed stress relief that you didn't have to smoke. Mary's not the monogamous type, and I've always been far too good at compartmentalization. We'd break it off if I found someone I wanted to date seriously, but it never hurt our friendship. We continued on and off until she moved back to the States during my last tour. She came back to London about six months after I met you, but we didn't start shagging again until after you jumped. I broke it off when I found out you were alive because I knew that I wanted to give this a try and I couldn't do it if I was still sleeping with her."

"Okay," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I was just wondering; I wasn't accusing you of anything."

Jo grinned, looking incredibly relieved. "Good. It's just that there aren't many people who are willing to even try and understand this; I know that it's unconventional at best."

"A lot of what we do is unconventional at best," he replied fondly. "I don't expect your past to be anything else."

The rest of the meal went far better than Sherlock had expected it to. He made it a point to engage in the conversation more: partly because he knew that it would make Jo happy, but mostly because he found Mary to be interesting (although why he expected Jo's best friend to be anything other than interesting was a mystery even to him). He had always found tattoos to be fascinating and finding a conversational partner who was knowledgeable on the subject was a treat, and that was besides the obvious overlap of interest that came from her career as a barrister. Jo held her own in the conversation, of course, but she did pull back a bit, letting them get to know each other. Sherlock kept stealing glances at his partner (Life-mate? Other-half? He really needed to discus titles with her at some point) and found her looking completely content. They were in the middle of dessert when Jo excused herself to used the bathroom, leaving Mary and Sherlock by themselves.

"I'm not a threat to you, you know," Mary said, breaking the silence that had fallen as soon as Jo had left.

Sherlock blinked at her. "Excuse me."

"If you're half as brilliant as Jo says you are, then you've already figured out that Jo and I used to shag," she answered pleasantly. "And I'm telling you that I'm not a threat to you.

"I've never been a til death do us part kind of girl, and Jo's fun in bed, but she's always wanted someone to commit to. I want her to be happy, so I'm not going to sabotage her shot at monogamy. And Jo's always been able to make a clean break, so don't be weird about this because there's no need for you to worry."

He nodded, a bit taken aback at her blunt honesty. "Thank you, I suppose. I wasn't worried, though."

"Good," she replied, smiling brightly. "I'm glad we've had this chat. I find that things work a lot smoother when you're up front about them." Sherlock agreed and moved the conversation back onto more comfortable, and less emotional, ground.


	12. Chapter 12

"It's only for three weeks," Jo protested for what felt like the millionth time in the past week.

Life at 221b had gotten back into a normal pattern, for a given value of normal. Sherlock's experiments were back in full swing, and the consulting detective business was becoming active again — he had even been invited on at the Yard in a more official (and paid) capacity. Jo was still working full time at the WPC, but she managed to find time to help with cases. They went out with Mary every other week or so, and they even started inviting Lestrade to come along every now and then. Sherlock had been back for a little over four months and things were finally calming down after his dramatic return, and they were slipping happily back into oblivion, thrilled that their fifteen minutes in the lime-light were finally over. Things had been going swimmingly, but that had changed about a week earlier. Jo had been working on opening a clinic in Georgia, but now that it was time for her to actually go and oversee the operation, Sherlock was kicking up a fuss.

The detective sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter how long it is! Why do you have to be the one to go?"

"Because, Sherlock," she replied, trying her best to keep from losing her temper, "it's my job. I've been working on this project for months. I have to see it through."

He rolled his eyes. "Why can't you see it through from here? You've heard of a little thing called the internet; I'm sure that you can handle any problem that arises from behind a laptop." They'd been having the same argument since they had started fighting, so Jo decided to change tactics, narrowly avoiding pointing out, again, that if something came up that needed her immediate reaction, over the internet wasn't going to be anywhere near good enough.

She took a deep breath before speaking again, working hard to keep her voice as calm as possible. "Look, this is my job; you know that. You know that I would never try and stop you from taking a case overseas if that's what you really wanted. Please try and see it from my perspective. This is something that I really want to do. And yes, it's going to be awful to be away from home for three weeks, but it's not the end of the world." Sherlock sighed again and flopped onto the couch. He didn't argue though, so Jo pressed on, sitting down beside him.

"You've said it yourself: this job was practically made for me; it's what I've always wanted to do. And I was lucky to get it; my reputation wasn't exactly at it's highest at the time, and people weren't lining up to hire me."

Sherlock looked at her sharply. "What? I didn't know that you had trouble finding work. I'm sorry…"

"No," she cut him off, kicking herself for revealing something she had decided to keep to herself. "I don't need you to apologize to me; it's not your fault. What I'm trying to say here is that this is my dream job, and I'm incredibly lucky to have it. I'm admitting up front that being away from you for three weeks is a downside, but it's not that bad and you know it. I'll get some time off when I get back, and we can spend as much time together as you want, doing whatever you want. Please, I don't want to still be fighting with you when I leave tomorrow, so can we stop this now?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, we can stop fighting now."

"And you're not mad at me anymore, right?" She pressed, just to be sure.

He nodded again, this time a bit more definitively. "I'm not angry. Even though I'm still not thrilled about you being gone for so long."

Jo beamed at him. "That's alright; I'll miss you too." She leaned down to kiss him and Sherlock allowed it, wrapping his arms around her and shifting until they were lying on the couch.

"Do you have to finish packing?" He asked, having lost track of how far along in the process she was at some point during their fight.

She shook her head. "Nope, I finished just before your third attempt to steal my passport. I'm all yours for the next," she checked her watch, "fifteen hours and fifty-five minutes."

"Good," he replied, kissing her again. "I think it's going to take me about that long to properly say goodbye." Jo didn't have an answer for that, too busy trying to get them both out of their clothes without falling off the couch.

Three weeks was longer than Jo had expected it to be. She and Sherlock had done their best to Skype as often as possible, but Jo was absolutely exhausted during what little free time she had, so their conversations never lasted too long, and she ended up falling asleep on him more often than she wanted to admit. Sherlock had sent her extremely long and detailed emails several times a day that seemed to be his direct stream of consciousness; they never failed to make her smile even if she felt guilty about how bland and lifeless her replies felt in comparison. Sherlock had emailed her about a case two days before she was scheduled to return, so she wasn't expecting him to meet her at the airport or anything. In fact, she wasn't sure if he would have met her at the airport even if he hadn't had a case — it somehow didn't seem like a very Sherlock thing to do — which was just fine by her; she was fairly sure that he wasn't going to let her get out of arm's reach for a while, and she'd much rather have had the chance to at least shower before her pseudo-quarantine started.

She texted Sherlock as soon as she was allowed to turn her phone back on, just to let him know that she had landed safely, and then continued to respond to his texts all the way through customs and baggage claim. She spent her cab ride home reading his disturbingly amusing blow-by-blow of the horrors of filing paperwork after a case was done. As soon as she got back to Baker Street, she headed straight for the shower, knowing that she only had a brief window of time before Sherlock was home and demanding her attention. She was in a pair of pajama bottoms and one of Sherlock's t-shirts, having just finished plaiting her still damp hair, when she heard the front door slam closed and Sherlock's steps on the stairs. She quickly finished what she was doing and hurried out just in time to meet him coming out of the kitchen. Before she even had the chance to say anything he enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. She hugged him back as tightly as he could, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent that she had missed more than she ever thought she would.

"Sherlock, love, I do have to breathe," she said after a few minutes had passed and her friend still showed no sighs of letting her go.

He released her immediately, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry, I just missed you."

"I missed you too," she replied fondly, cupping his cheek and guiding him into a gentle kiss.

He nodded towards the kitchen once they pulled apart. "I brought Chinese. I thought you might be hungry."

"I think I might be falling in love with you all over again," she answered seriously, grinning up at him. "I am absolutely famished."

He grinned, looking very pleased with himself. "Good; I was afraid you might have stopped for something to eat on your way back."

"Nope," she replied, shaking her head. "Not even food was worth putting off coming home." Sherlock swooped down and kissed her again, beyond pleased that she was as happy to be home as he was to have her there.

* * *

**Thank you so much to everyone who's read this. The next few chapter's are when the story really begins to pick up, so I'm very excited about that. I'd love to hear from you either here or you could drop by tumblr where I'm the ravensdesk**


	13. Chapter 13

Not all of Sherlock's cases were about murders; in fact, not even all of the best ones were about murders, and Jo's favorites rarely involved anyone dying. They had just wrapped up one of these private cases; it had come through Sherlock's website and had seemed downright trite in the beginning but had turned out to be anything but. An elderly, but wealthy, widow had written Sherlock, swearing that a portrait her husband had had painted of her when they were first married was a forgery, even though the artist was unknown that the painting had no value other than the sentimental. The evidence backed up her claims and eventually led them to discover family treasure, greedy (and artistically talented) grandchildren, and a rooftop chase that ranked somewhere in the duo's top ten list of rooftop chases. And the best part, according to Sherlock, was that there was no tedious paperwork when it was all said and done. They made it back to Baker Street just before midnight, the adrenaline still singing in their veins.

Sherlock pushed her up against the wall and lifted her up. Jo wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, simultaneously impressed at his strength and worried that she was going to fall. Sherlock pushed her cardigan off her shoulders and then focused on getting her button-up undone, dividing his attention between sucking kisses on her neck trying to get her clothes off. He was almost finished when the heard Lestrade's distinctive tread on the stairs. The quickly separated and tried desperately to make it look like they hadn't been doing what they had just been doing, but it was too late. Lestrade came through the door without knocking and stopped short; even if their clothes hadn't been in utter disarray, he would have been able to tell what had been going on just from their flustered/guilty expression. The three of them stayed frozen in that awkward tableau for a few seconds before Sherlock broke it by fleeing without saying a word. The harsh sound of his bedroom door slamming behind him broke the other two out of their embarrassment.

Jo sighed, pulling the open ends of her shirt even tighter around herself. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"Sorry," Lestrade answered, "it's just a habit."

She rolled her eyes. "And now we've all been punished for it. Did you actually come by for a reason, or were you just popping in for a social call at ten til midnight?"

"I was going to drop off some cold-case files," he answered, sounding oddly defensive. "It's been a while since I've had anything to call Sherlock in on, and I thought that he might appreciate something to keep him occupied."

She smiled, taking the offered files. "He will, eventually; once he gets over what I'm sure is abject mortification."

"So how long have you two…" he asked, trailing off awkwardly.

"Six months," she answered simply. "We didn't didn't want anyone to know, so if you could not tell anyone about what you saw, then we would really appreciate it."

Lestrade nodded quickly. "Of course; I won't breathe a word. Congratulations, by the way."

Jo beamed at him. "Thank you. And thanks for the files. Have a good night."

"You too," he answered a little awkwardly. "Is Sherlock going to be alright, though? I don't think I've ever seen him get that embarrassed about anything."

She shrugged. "He's a surprisingly private person. But seriously, don't worry about it. I'll talk to him and convince him that it's not the end of the world. Everything will be fine." Lestrade nodded again and left, still feeling more awkward than he felt he should after finding proof of something he had already guessed.

Jo made her way quietly into Sherlock's bedroom, thankful that he hadn't locked the door behind him. Sherlock lay in the center of his bed, covering his eyes with one arm and fisting the duvet in his other hand. Jo took a brief moment to smile at the slightly melodramatic, and very Sherlockian, pose before becoming serious again in order to deal with whatever crisis Sherlock was convinced they were in the middle of. It didn't matter that the crisis was almost certainly entirely of Sherlock's own making, it was real to him and thus it was real enough for Jo.

She started by carefully unlacing and then removing his shoes, taking off his socks as well because Sherlock hated wearing them if he wasn't wearing shoes (and wearing shoes without socks was an abomination; Jo was just glad he didn't own a pair of sandals because she wasn't sure she wanted to find out which side of the line those fell on). She then moved to sit beside him so that she could gently run her fingers through his hair. After a few minutes of that, he had relaxed enough for her to pull his arm away from his face, settling it across her lap.

"There you are," she said, smiling once he finally opened his eyes and looked at her. His cheeks were still slightly pink and he wasn't saying anything, so she continued. "Come on Sherlock, it's just Lestrade. You've known Greg for years; he's not going to go blabbing what he saw to everyone he sees. And it's not like he's going to start cracking jokes about it at crime scenes; for one thing, he's too decent a bloke for that, and for another he's a professional. This isn't the end of the world, love; I don't know what you're getting yourself so worked up over."

He nodded, looking sheepish. "It was just unexpected, and embarrassing."

"True," she answered fondly. "But we weren't doing anything wrong. We're both consenting adults; it's not like getting caught by your parents snogging on the couch when you're a teenager." He nodded again, looking more like his usual self and Jo smiled. "Manufactured crisis averted?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, you've successfully averted a crisis that didn't really exist; congratulations." Jo's, no doubt snarky, reply was cut off by a rather large yawn. Sherlock smiled. "Come to bed. Aren't you always the one going on about how important sleep is right after a case?"

"I need to shower first," she said, lazily pushing herself off the bed. "You're welcome to join me though." She left for the bathroom without waiting for a response. Sherlock barely hesitated before getting up and following after her.


	14. Chapter 14

Jo sighed and and called for a cab, too tired to walk home. She was getting on a plane in two days to go set up another clinic, this time in Africa. Sherlock was less than thrilled, but he wasn't putting up a fight this time, which Jo chose to count as a major win. She was stocking up on groceries, mostly frozen dinners and things that didn't take that much attention to make; they wouldn't last him the whole three weeks she was going to be gone — if they did then the two of them were going to have to have serious words when she got home — but it would definitely be a start. She was waiting outside of the market, her bags resting around her feet when a sleek black limousine pulled up in front of her. She sighed in obvious annoyance, but got in when the driver got out and opened the door for her, offering to take her bags. She was relieved to find Mycroft already sitting across from her because she really wasn't in the mood to be dragged to some conveniently deserted warehouse.

"Do you actually have a phone?" She asked, with a heavy sigh. "Because I've just realized that I've been operating under the rather large assumption that you do. Maybe that's what I'll get you for Christmas next year, just to be sure."

He gave her a look that was obviously meant to convey just how unamused he really was with her. "This is a conversation that I felt was best had in person due to the, delicate, nature of the subject matter."

"Well I'm on a bit of a tight schedule at the moment," she said, making a show of checking her watch. "So if you could just get on with it, that would be great because I really don't have the time for a session of your grandstanding and rather textbook attempts at emotional manipulation and intimidation."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but showed no other outward reaction (Jo counted it as a victory since she had long learned to count any reaction as a win). "You should seriously consider rescheduling your upcoming trip; the region isn't exactly known for it's political stability, and…"

"And that is exactly why I need to go," she answered sharply. "I do what I do in order to help the people who need it the most. I'm not going to start shirking that responsibility now."

"And what of your responsibilities at home?" He asked archly. "You claim to be committed to your dalliance with my brother, yet you cannot even stay in the country for more than a few months at a time. What sort of message do you think this is sending about your ability, and willingness, to settle down."

Jo glared, doing her best to tamp down the sudden intense burst of anger she had come to associate with the elder Holmes. "First of all, my duty to my job in no way contradicts my commitment to Sherlock; second of all, he certainly isn't looking for some submissive housewife to sit and wait for him to come home every night, and thirdly… Wait, there is no thirdly; thirdly you should mind your own damn business."

"Sherlock is very much my business," the politician answered coldly.

She scoffed. "And that's worked out so well for him in the past." Mycroft didn't actually answer her, but he oozed disapproval for the entire rest on the car ride while Jo determinedly pretended to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo wasn't surprised that Sherlock was gone when she got to 221b - he had texted her about an experiment at Bart's - but coming home to an empty flat still didn't help her mood. She was still putting the groceries away when Sherlock came breezing in. He pressed an affectionate kiss onto her cheek before leaning against the counter and launching into a description of what he had been up to. He was a bit in the way, but Jo forced herself to bite her tongue, knowing that her annoyance wasn't really Sherlock's fault and that taking it out on him wouldn't be fair. She finished unloading her bags and got half way through making tea before giving up out of sheer restlessness. Sherlock fell silent and studied her, tilting his head to the side.

"What's wrong?" He asked, frowning. "My brother doesn't typically upset you this much."

She ignored his question and instead asked one of her own, glad for the opportunity. "If you had a problem with me, you'd tell me, right? You wouldn't get your brother to be ridiculously passive aggressive for you."

"No, of course I wouldn't," he answered, sounding genuinely concerned. "What the hell did he say to you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, really; like I said, he was just really passive aggressive. I just wanted to check and make sure that I hadn't missed something important."

"You haven't missed anything," he promised, stepping towards her. "And I certainly wouldn't tell Mycroft anything that I wouldn't tell you."

She nodded, leaning in to his embrace. "Of course, I know that. I just, forgot, momentarily." Sherlock smiled after studying her for a moment before leaning down to kiss her, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo hated to admit that Mycroft was right about anything, but at this point she didn't see any other way to put it. They had been on-site for a little over a week when the violence broke out, spurned on by an inflammatory speech given by a political leader. Jo had spent the next two days doing her best to keep their compound secure while still providing vital medical services and housing those trying to escape the violence. She tried desperately to reach the British embassy with no luck, and prayed to a god she had never really believed in for an evacuation; she had her team ready to go and knew that they could be out in under five minutes. Finally, on the third day their salvation came in the form of British soldiers in full battle gear.

"I need to speak with Dr. Jo Watson," the man in charge said as soon as he was through the door.

Jo stepped forward. "That's me; I'm in charge of the clinic. Eight of us are British citizens, and we can be fully evacuated in five minutes."

A pained look crossed the soldier's face. "I'm sorry ma'am, but we aren't here for a full evacuation; we only have room for one. Our orders give you priority."

"Of course they do," she answered with a sigh, taking a brief moment to get her disappointment under control. "Well I can't go; I can't leave my team here."

He nodded. "We were told to expect that. We still have one available seat, though." Jo nodded, quickly making a decision. Part of her wanted to send Jenna Warren, the photojournalist, since she would be the least useful, but Melissa Carver had only been married for a few months and had found out she was pregnant right before they left.

"Melissa, get your things," she ordered, purposefully not looking at anyone. Five minutes later, they were alone again. Jo was just thankful that the soldiers had been under orders to leave her a few weapons in the event that she had decided to stay behind.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes fixated on the television screen. The news coverage was spotty and focused on areas Sherlock couldn't care less about, but it was all that he had. Mycroft had told him that Jo had declined evacuation - instead sending a newly-pregnant subordinate in a completely unsurprising move that proved her inherent nobility - but had refused to give him any more information than that. So Sherlock watched the news, flipping channels during commercials or when they decided to talk about something else. He ignored Lestrade's texts and calls until the man finally gave up, and he only tolerated Mrs. Hudson because he knew Jo would furious if she came home and found that he had been unspeakably rude to their landlady. And Jo was coming home; the alternative was unthinkable.

When the door to the flat opened for the third time that hour Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine, really. This ceaseless hovering of yours is unnecessary."

"Well it's a good thing I'm not Mrs. Hudson then, isn't it," Mary said from the doorway.

Sherlock looked up, surprised to see her there and annoyed with himself for being so. "What are you doing here?"

"Where else would I be?" She asked with a shrug, stepping into the room. "I'm scared for her too, you know, and I guess I thought it would be better to be scared with someone else than to be sitting home alone. Do you mind?" Sherlock shook his head, not saying anything as he turned his attention back to the screen. Mary sat beside him on the sofa, not bothering to put even a cushion of space between them. When the broadcasters started talking about the lack of information they had about the British citizens still in the country, Mary reached over and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock froze, not quite sure what to do, but after a few moments he relaxed again and allowed himself the comfort.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo sighed as she lowered herself onto her bed after an incredibly long day. It had been a week since the soldiers had left with Melissa and there was still no sign of evacuation; their clinic was on the outskirts of a smaller town and wasn't near any of the epicenters of violence, but it was still nerve-wracking. She had spent most of the day helping a woman through a ridiculously difficult labor that ended in an emergency c-section. In the end, the mother had died anyway, which was depressing, but the baby had lived, although what they were going to do with him remained to be seen. She was hot and sweaty and smeared with someone else's blood; what she really wanted was a a shower, but the couldn't spare the water, so she made do with a damp wash-rag.

She had only been asleep for a few hours when she was woken up by the sound of a commotion. She had a brief moment of sleepy hope that they were finally being evacuated before she woke up more thoroughly and realized that the noises didn't quite match those of a rescue. She bolted out of bed and shoved her feet into her boots. She was just tying her laces when one of the other doctors came rushing in to tell her that there was a crowd of men outside. Jo refrained from pointing out just how obvious that was at this point.

Jo looked out the window next to the door and saw a group of about ten men with large sticks and cricket bats congregating outside. Jo stepped out onto the porch of the building with one of the local doctor who was working with them at the clinic. She had a handgun at her side and had flicked the safety off before stepping out the door. Adrenaline was surging through her veins as she braced for the worst, but no one rushed her immediately, which was something of a good sign, at least.

"Tell them that they have to leave," she said to the man beside her, not taking her eyes off the crowd. "Tell them that we're armed and are willing to put up a fight." Her companion companion barely got through his translation before one of the men ran forward. Jo raised her gun, leveling it at him in a hope that it would deter him. It didn't, and she pulled the trigger right as he reached the steps. He was close enough that some of his blood splattered back on her, but she never flinched.

After a moment of preternatural stillness, the rest of the crowd dispersed; Jo stayed outside until she was sure the threat had passed. Once inside, Jo did her best to comfort those who were beginning to well and truly panic (she wasn't sure how effective she was considering the fact that she was covered in yet another persons blood). It took her almost half an hour to get everyone to go back to their rooms and she was unbelievably thankful that she ended up being the odd person out when it came to sharing rooms after Melissa left. After another cursory wipe down with a flannel, she collapsed onto her bed again and quickly fell asleep to thoughts of home.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Mary had practically moved into 221b, and while Sherlock felt as if this should annoy him, it was undeniably nice to have someone else there — the flat was decidedly too quiet on the occasions that she did leave him alone. She couldn't afford to take the days off, but managed to do most of her work via laptop, only occasionally having to go into the office. She nagged him about eating and sleeping; he played the violin for her on the rare occasions that she forced him to turn the news off. He was too preoccupied to even think about running the experiments he had planned for Jo's absence, but he answered the questions Mary had about what she found in the kitchen. He had previously thought himself incapable of living in such close quarters with anyone other that Jo, but, under different circumstances, he imagined that living with Mary could be rather pleasant.

She broke him out of his musings by waving a plate of stir fry under his nose. "Here. Eat."

"I'm not hungry," he answered, eying the food warily.

She rolled her eyes. "That's a lie, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm not going to stand for it. I went into your death trap of a kitchen and actually cooked real food, so you're going to bloody well eat it; understood?" Sherlock took the plate without a word. Mary sat down beside him with a sigh.

"This is actually very good," he said a few minutes later.

Mary snorted. "Thanks; it's one of the few things I can cook really well, though, so I wouldn't get used to it if I were you."

Later, after they finished eating and Mary spent five minutes sending him increasingly pointed looks, Sherlock took their dishes into the kitchen to wash up. A few minutes later, Sherlock was half way up to his elbows in dishwater when he heard a strangled cry come from the living room. He rushed in and saw Mary still sitting on the couch; she looked deathly pale and was fixated on the television screen. Sherlock turned his attention to the news, dreading what he was going to see.

A blond woman was doing her best to look grave as she spoke. "To repeat, we have confirmed reports that the seven British citizens have been evacuated from the area. There are also reports that one of the doctors was shot and killed and several others were wounded during the evacuation. The identity of the deceased has not been released. Our thoughts are with those who have lost a loved one today."

The show cut to commercial but Sherlock was no longer paying attention. His legs no longer seemed up to the task of supporting his weight and he dropped to the couch; his lungs didn't seem to be working properly either, and he felt tears prick his eyes. Eventually, after god knows how long, Sherlock's brain started to come back online and he fumbled for his mobile, punching in Mycroft's number with more enthusiasm than he'd ever had before. It rang for what seemed like an eternity, and Sherlock was rather terrified that his brother wouldn't answer; he couldn't help but breathe sigh of release when he heard Mycroft's voice on the other end of the line.

"Is she alright?" He demanded, not bothering with opening pleasantries. "Was she the one who was shot?"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock calm down. Your overly sentimental panic isn't going to help anything."

"Tell me right now!" He bellowed, trying to come up with a suitable threat if Mycroft failed to comply.

The politician sighed again, this time sounding a bit distressed. "I don't know. Things are still hectic and information is not coming through typical channels. Despite what you might think, I cannot simply access any information I wish. There is a chain of command that must be respected." Sherlock groaned and ended the call, tossing his phone on the cushion beside him.

"What did he say?" Mary asked, a mixture of terror and hope in her voice.

He shook his head. "He doesn't know anything, or if he does, then he's not telling me." Mary sighed and collapsed back against the pillows, not knowing what to say.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Things were definitely getting worse, and Jo knew that she was running out of time to make a decision of whether or not to stay at the clinic and wait for evacuation. The locals had already decided to flee, taking the newborn with them, and her staff was starting to doubt whether anyone was coming for them at all. Jo was beginning to have doubts of her own, but at least they currently had enough supplies to last them a while and enough medical equipment to cover anything up to and including small-scale surgeries. Still, they couldn't stay indefinitely — not if the few radio reports they had managed to somewhat-translate were any indication of the increase in violence.

It was early in the morning on the tenth day; Jo was on watch, and everyone else was asleep. It was deathly silent, almost peaceful, and she found it easy for her mind to wander. She thought mostly about Sherlock — worrying about how he was handling all of this — but also about the others: Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. She even spared a thought or two for her family; although she had few pleasant memories that didn't involve her grandfather. She felt homesick for probably the first time in her life; she hadn't expected it to be an actual physical sensation, and it wasn't a pleasant surprise to find out that it was. Afghanistan had never been this bad, and she briefly toyed with the idea of agreeing with Mycroft — sentiment had made her weak — but pushed the thought away with the knowledge that it had also made her stronger than she ever thought possible.

She was shocked out of her thoughts by the sound of creaking metal as the gate to their complex was opened. Jo's heart stuttered in her chest as she made her way to the front of the building, checking to make sure that it wasn't refugees seeking asylum before she sounded the alarm. Her knees almost buckled with relief when she saw the familiar uniforms of British troops. She ran over to the intercom behind the front desk and announced they eminent evacuation before going outside to greet the men. There were ten of them, fully armed, and Jo barely restrained herself from kissing each and every one of them out of sheer joy.

"I'm Doctor Jo Watson. You have no idea how glad I am to see you," she said to the man clearly in charge. "There are seven of us, no injuries, and we can be out in a matter of minutes." Her voice was brisk and professional, her posture distinctly military after almost two weeks at high alert.

The man nodded, still scanning the area for threats. "Good. This place isn't safe. We have two Blackhawks about a klick away. Hopefully we can get there before any real trouble breaks out; our reports say that the violence is definitely going to spread here next."

"Let me make sure my people are all together," she said calmly. "And then we'll be out."

"Good," he answered crisply. "We'll stay out here. Don't take too long."

Jo didn't answer him, just turned on her heel and walked briskly back into the building. Her original hope and elation was fading fast, a grim determination settling in it's place. She quickly went to her room, grabbing her already packed rucksack and making sure that she had the extra clips to the handgun in her pockets. When she finished, she assembled her staff in the foyer. They all looked as determined as she was — if a bit more frightened — with their bags on their backs. They hadn't been trained for this, but Jo repressed the pessimistic voice inside of her that kept mentioning it; she knew that they could use all the luck they could get, so she plastered on the smile that had got her through four and a half tours and did her best to exude positive energy.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock was asleep, curled up in his chair, when he was startled awake by something. His eyes were gritty with too little sleep and he was disoriented after being woken up out of REM. It took him a few moments to realize that what had woken him up was the sound of his phone ringing and a few more after that to find it without waking Mary, who was stretched out on the sofa, sound asleep. He picked it up right before it went to voicemail and answered without checking who it was; if it was anyone other than Mycroft, he was going to hang up and go back to staring at the pointless news until he dozed off again. His voice was gravely and cracked on his 'hello,' but he cleared his throat and tried again. He heard a gasp on the other line and then someone said his name; he recognized the voice immediately.

"Jo, please tell me that's really you," he said breathlessly, barely making it back to his chair before collapsing.

There was a dry chuckle that sounded even more tired than he felt. "It's not like you to ask obvious questions, Sherlock. Of course it's really me."

"Right, sorry," he said, trying desperately to make himself wake up faster. "Are you okay?"

She sighed heavily and hesitated before answering. "No, I'm really not. I'm not okay at all."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hating that even after all these months, it still felt awkward to talk about emotions. "The news said that one of you was killed during the evacuation."

There was another sigh and a pause long enough that Sherlock began to wonder if Jo was ever going to say anything in response. "Yeah, Annie. She was a sweet girl — just out of med school and idealistic as hell. She never stood a chance; she was never trained for a war zone — none of them were. We didn't even have armor, Sherlock." She trailed off, her voice choked with emotion. He could hear her ragged breathing in the receiver and could clearly imagine her forcing herself not to cry.

"I'm sorry," he said again, feeling a bit sick at how lame that sounded. "The news said that there had been a casualty, but they didn't say who. I know that you have a habit of throwing yourself right into the middle of dangerous situations, and Mycroft wouldn't tell me anything. I thought that…"

Jo cut him off. "Christ Sherlock, I'm so sorry; I promise you I'm fine: just a few scrapes and bruises." She paused before continuing. "I should have come home when I had the chance; I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking that it was your job to stay, and that your staff didn't stand a chance without you," he answered firmly. "You were doing what Jo Watsons do: protecting people. Expecting anything else from you would be trying to change you, and that's the last thing I want."

She let out a deep breath and Sherlock thought he heard the sound of her thumping her head against the wall. "Sherlock, I don't think anyone's ever loved me quite like you do."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" He asked, smiling just a bit.

She chuckled. "It's a very good thing. I wouldn't change you either, you know; not even if it means I never have a clean kitchen again."

He chuckled as well before growing serious again. "I do love you, very much. Sometimes I worry that I don't tell you enough."

"You tell me plenty," she replied, sounding just as serious. "I love you too." They fell silent for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe.

Finally Sherlock spoke again. "Mary's been staying here."

"Really, what's she doing there?" Jo asked, sounding almost bemused. "I'm kind of surprised you two haven't tried to kill each other."

He shrugged even though he knew she couldn't see him. "We've been keeping what Mary calls 'a ridiculous, emotionally stunted vigil.' And we get along surprisingly well, but she probably will kill me if I don't wake her up to talk to you."

"Alright," she agreed. "But put me on speaker, please." Sherlock wasn't sure of her reasoning behind the request, but he didn't argue. Waking Mary up was something of a process (he'd learned that it was prudent to be gentle after the first time she had decked him), and he could hear Jo laughing at him over the tinny speakers.

When he finally coaxed her into wakefulness and explained what was going on, Mary yanked the phone out of his hand, thankfully leaving it on speaker. "Jo? Is that you?"

"The one and only," the doctor answered cheerfully. Sherlock realized immediately why Jo had wanted to be on speaker; it distorted her voice just enough that even he wouldn't have been able to tell that she was faking if it wasn't for their previous conversation.

Mary breathed out a sigh of obvious relief. "Good. Are you alright, though?"

"I'm fine," she lied easily. "Absolutely exhausted, but that's nothing a good night's rest won't fix."

She broke into a huge smile. "That's the best news I've heard in ages. Where are you now?"

"A military base in Germany," she answered simply. "We'll be flying out in a few hours, and I'll be home by dinner tomorrow." There was the muffled sound someone saying something in the background and Jo pulled away from the receiver for a moment to answer.

"Looks like it's my turn for the shower," she said brightly. "So I have to go, but I'll see you guys soon." She quickly gave them the details of her flight and then rang off.

They were quiet for a few moments before Mary turned to him with a grin. "I'm so happy I could kiss you."

"Please don't," he answered dryly, giving her a wary look. Still, he didn't flinch away when she leaned in and kissed his cheek, rolling his eyes instead.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

It was hot and dusty and Jo hated every godforsaken second of it. She missed the comforting weight of a flak jacket even as her shirt stuck to her uncomfortably; the gun in her hand was heavy and slicked with sweat, the metal uncomfortably warm against her skin. Every so often her leg twinged, and when she coupled that with the obvious signs of hyper-vigilance, she didn't hold out much hope that this nightmare wasn't going to land her back in therapy. Part of her wanted to scream, but she ruthlessly suppressed it and continued scanning their surroundings. The sound of gunfire in the distance made her undeniably twitchy, but she tried to comfort herself with the fact that it was too far away to be a threat to them. She was taking up the rear and they were moving at a steady but unchallenging pace. They were almost to the helicopters when one of the soldiers dropped back to march beside her.

"You've served," he said matter of factly.

She nodded. "Yeah, four and a half tours in Afghanistan."

"I bet that half tour is a bitch though," he answered with grin.

She chuckled. "That's one word for it." His reply was cut off by the crack of a gunshot and the sound of someone screaming.

One of her staff had been hit in the arm, but Jo stayed where she was, trying to figure out where the shot had come from. Suddenly, a volley of shots broke out, all coming from different directions. The group broke into a run, heading for the helicopters since the buildings surrounding them obviously weren't any sort of safe haven. A few of the women tripped, but they picked themselves up quickly and there were no further injuries than a few scraped knees. When they finally reached the field where the helicopters were waiting, Jo didn't think she'd ever been so happy to hear the deafening sounds of the blades. She was still one of the last people into the clearing, and so was the closest when Annie, the youngest in their group, fell. She seemed to be having trouble getting back up, so Jo quickly ran over to her and hauled her to her feet. It wasn't until Annie was listing to the side, obviously unable to support her own weight, that Jo looked down and saw the horrifying red spreading through her shirt. Jo cursed fervently, though the helicopters were too loud for her to even hear herself, and did her best to half carry, half drag Annie to the nearest door. They were only a few feet away when Jo felt searing pain shoot out from her leg. Her knees buckled and she fell, trying desperately to keep holding Annie up even as she was gasping past the pain. Within moments two of the men had dashed forward, easily lifting them into the waiting aircraft.

Jo leaned back against her seat, using the breathing techniques her only mostly useless therapist had taught her to push past the pain as one of her colleagues cut her trousers away and dressed her wound. Annie was stretched out on the floor of the helicopter, and Jo watched avidly as two of the other doctors worked desperately to keep her alive; Jo knew from experience that it was a lost cause. Still, Jo didn't look away until they finally called time of death. She vaguely registered Jenna taking pictures, but she was too exhausted to try and stop her. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, forcing herself to keep calm as she waited for the nightmare to end.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock, as a rule, hated airports; there was too much humanity funneled into one place, and everyone was stressed and vaguely wary of everyone else. But he refused to wait a second longer than he had to to see Jo again, and so he stood in the middle of Heathrow International, staring fixedly at the Arrivals and Departures board. Mary was back at Baker Street, having declined his invitation to accompany him to meet Jo, saying that she didn't want to intrude on their reunion. He was mostly grateful for this consideration, but he felt more than slightly awkward standing by himself. Mycroft had, at least, assured him that there would be no reporters on hand to capture the moment and then sell it to the highest bidder; Sherlock had every confidence that his relationship with Jo would one day become public knowledge, but he had no desire for it to become known like this.

Finally, the board ticked over to show that Jo's flight had arrived, and Sherlock became even more antsy as he waited for Jo to make her way to where he was. There was a crowd waiting at the foot of the escalators, and the detective was standing in the back, unwilling to risk being accosted by security agents for causing a scene by trying to push his way to the front. The passengers began to appear and were either greeted by their friends and family or made their way quickly towards the baggage claim; the crowd began to disperse and still there was no sign of Jo. He saw a few people he recognized as Jo's colleagues, which was somewhat of a relief, but soon even they were gone and Sherlock was left alone waiting for his partner. He began to imagine all of the horrible things that could have kept Jo from arriving — ranging from her having a sudden heart attack in a bathroom stall to her being kept from getting on the plane in Germany — irrationally ignoring the fact that an airport was one of the safest places on the planet, security wise. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally appeared on the escalator.

Jo was wearing a pair of loose fitting trousers and a baggy jumper; she looked beyond exhausted, but she managed a genuine smile when she saw him waiting for her. Sherlock rocked on the balls of his feet, not wanting to overwhelm her by being overeager but simultaneously wanting to rush forward and wrap her up in his arms. Jo dropped her bag unceremoniously at his feet before launching into a hug without a word. He hugged her back, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deeply.

"Fuck I missed you," she said, pressing her face against his neck.

He nodded, showing no sign of letting her go. "I missed you too." He felt her start to cry and just held on tighter.

A few minutes later the pulled apart and Sherlock leaned down and kissed her, cupping her face in his hands and trying to avoid whimpering. Jo kept her arms around his waist but had insinuated her hands between his coat and his body. She sighed into the kiss, sounding relived and exhausted and happy and devastated all at once.

"Take me home," Jo said quietly after they had finally separated.

Sherlock nodded, bending down to pick up her bag for her. "Mary is waiting for us."

"That's nice," she answered, sounding tired even as she fell into step beside him. They were almost to the front door when he realized that Jo was favoring her left leg. He froze, quickly looking her up and down again and frowning.

"You're hurt," he said, sounding more than slightly panicked.

She shrugged, smiling reassuringly at him. "Just a few scratches. I tripped, and I'm a bit sore; that's all. It's nothing for you to worry about."

"Well as long as you're sure that you don't need to see a doctor," he said skeptically, still looking at her as if he expected her to collapse at any second.

She rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, I've been surrounded by doctors for weeks; the last thing I need is to see another one. I promise you that I have been well taken care of." She slipped her arm through his and nudged him forward, leaning against him as they walked.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Mary's greeting was as effusive as had been expected. She hugged a smiling Jo, but left in less than ten minutes, recognizing that her friend was too tired for much else. She did, however, get Jo to promise to meet her for lunch at some point in the next week. Once they were alone, Jo's smile slipped away and she leaned her weight against her partner again. Sherlock gently rubbed her back, taking a moment to revel in the feeling of finally being home.

"I'm going to go change into things not involving buttons," she said after a few minutes, still not moving. "And it would be absolutely fantastic if you could order dinner."

Sherlock smiled, dropping a soft, affectionate kiss on her forehead. "Of course. Do you want anything in particular?"

"You can deduce it," she said cheekily before giving him a quick kiss and heading towards their shared bedroom.

As soon as the door was shut behind her, Jo let out a sigh and let herself limp as she walked over to the wardrobe. She had somehow managed to forget just how much being shot hurt; it was just a flesh wound, but she still wanted to lay down and not move for days — and maybe convince Sherlock to watch Monty Python (she had a sneaking suspicion that he was a secret fan and she wanted the chance to test her theory). She got her pajamas out of the drawer and set them on the bed before going over to the wardrobe and getting the med-kit out of the bottom of the wardrobe so that she could change her dressing. Unfortunately, due to the position of the wound, she wasn't going to be able to do it while sitting; she just hoped that she could manage it without falling over.

She had braced herself against the wall as she stepped out of her trousers when she heard Sherlock's voice behind her. "Jo? What's going on?" She sighed and leaned her forehead against the wall as Sherlock continued. "That doesn't look like a scratch. Were you shot?"

"Just a little bit," she said quietly. "It really isn't that bad; I didn't want to worry you."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Do you need help changing your bandages?" She turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway, looking pale and a nervous as he clutched at a couple of takeaway menus.

"If you wouldn't mind," she said, forcing herself to stand up straight. "I mean, I can manage myself if you don't want to."

He shook his head, finally stepping further into the room. "No, of course I'll help. Sit down on the bed." She nodded and limped over to the bed, no longer bothering to try and hide the injury. Sherlock went and knelt in front of her, opening the med-kit on the floor beside him. After only a few moments Jo felt the need to fill the silence.

"It happened during the evacuation," she said quietly, looking down at the top of her friend's head. "I was less than two yards away from the helicopter. I was carrying Annie after she had been shot. It's barely more than a graze; it'll just be sore for a few weeks."

He shook his head, still focusing on what he was doing. "I don't understand why you didn't tell me. I thought you trusted me."

"Of course I trust you," she said softly, beginning to run her fingers through her hair. "It's just that I knew how worried you were, and I didn't want to make it worse. I just wanted it to be over with."

He sighed. "So you were just going to hide the fact that you got shot? How exactly was that supposed to work."

"I hadn't really thought it through," she admitted, still playing with his curls. "I guess I just thought that I'd do what I did before, but obviously that wasn't going to work."

He looked up at her sharply, "What do you mean what you did before? Are you telling me that you've been shot before and hid it from me?"

"No," she said quickly, "not shot. It was just a couple cracked ribs and a minor knife wound."

He froze. "A minor knife wound? You're telling me that you got knifed and just didn't tell me! Why the hell would you do that?"

She shrugged, forcing herself to make eye contact. "You always get so upset when I'm hurt, and I didn't want to bother you. And it's not like I hid any major injuries from you."

He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. "For the record, breaking bones, getting stabbed, and being shot do not count as minor injuries." He paused before continuing, sounding pained. "Jo, you can't keep hiding it from me when you get hurt; especially if you're doing it to keep me from getting upset. I'd rather be scared out of my mind every once in a while than constantly worried that you're hurt and just not telling me. Please Jo, promise me that you won't try to do this again."

"Alright," she said quietly, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "I promise I'll tell you if I get hurt again. I'm sorry; I am."

He nodded and went back to changing her bandage. When he finished, he rested his head on her uninjured leg and sat in silence, rubbing his thumb against the bone in her ankle. Jo didn't say anything either. Instead, she continued to pet his hair, occasionally letting her fingers drift down to trace the features of his face. He closed his eyes and seemed to go boneless. Jo felt the tension finally begin to drain out of her. She was just beginning to seriously consider falling asleep when her stomach growled, shattering the quiet of the room.

Sherlock blinked up at her. "I was going to order dinner, but I couldn't decide between Indian and Thai."

"Indian sounds fantastic," she answered with a smile. He nodded and pushed himself off the ground and went to go make the call.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

After dinner Sherlock and Jo ended up on the sofa together, watching Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail on dvd. It was normally the type of thing that he would protest just on principle, but he was so happy to have Jo back at home that he didn't even complain a little bit when Jo asked him to put it on. He was even able to admit, at least to himself, that it was fairly amusing. As entertaining as it was, it still wasn't long before Jo started stifling yawns. It was obvious that she was exhausted, and Sherlock kept expecting her to announce that she was finally going to bed; in fact, he was actually looking forward to it. But she never did. They got about half way through the film before Sherlock decided that enough was enough: Jo was stifling more and more yawns, and was having trouble keeping her eyes open, no longer even chuckling at jokes he knew she found funny.

He reached for the remote and shut the television off. "Let's go to bed."

"Hey I was watching that," she said, pushing herself up from where she had been laying against his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're exhausted Jo; you're practically falling asleep where you sit. We can finish watching it tomorrow." He stood up and held out his hand to her. "Come on, let's go to bed."

"Maybe I should sleep upstairs," she said quietly after a few moments of hesitation. She was still sitting on the couch and Sherlock could see that she was now looking distinctly nervous; as the silence carried on she began to fidget awkwardly, so Sherlock sat down beside her with a sigh.

"Why should you do that?" He asked, his heart rate kicking up a bit even as he kept his voice calm.

Jo shrugged, looking down at the carpet in front of her instead of at him. "Because I'll probably have nightmares tonight. They can be a bit disturbing."

"Would it be better for you if you slept by yourself?" He questioned, hating the thought of spending yet another night without her.

She hesitated, obviously considering lying before answering honestly. "No, it's always better when you're there."

"Alright then," he replied. "We'll both sleep in our bed then." He stood up again, and this time she took his hand when he offered it.

Once they're in bed and settled with Sherlock spooned up behind her, Jo sighed. "Aren't you going to get bored? I mean, it is a bit early for you to go to bed."

"I won't get bored," he promised. "I just want to be where ever you are."

Jo smiled, lifting his hand from where it was pressed against her stomach and giving it an affectionate kiss. "I love you too."

* * *

**Thank you all for reading. Feedback would be absolutely wonderful, either here or over on tumblr where I'm the ravensdesk.**

**I know that this chapter is pretty long, but it's my favorite and I didn't want to break it up.**


	15. Chapter 15

Jo had been home for a little over a month and she was still on what was being termed a 'paid sabbatical,' and as much as she loved her job, she wasn't too eager to get back to it. She and Sherlock had had a few private cases, nothing too strenuous, but this was her first crime scene since the fiasco that was her trip to Africa. She caught Sherlock giving her appraising glances the entire cab ride over, but as soon as they reached the scene, he focused entirely on his work.

The murder was identical to one that had been committed two weeks before: a man with a medium build had been struck several times with a blunt object (which had been conveniently left at the scene), strangled (the cause of death in both cases had been asphyxiation), and then stripped and posed with his legs spread and his arms above his head, crossed at the wrist. The only problem was that a fingerprint found on the bloodied cricket bat found at the first scene had led police to Alice Miller, who quickly confessed to the crime. Miss Miller had lived alone, kept to herself at work, and had no social life to speak of; there was nothing in either the evidence or her confession that even suggested the presence of an accomplice. And so Lestrade had called Sherlock in, hoping that he could shed some light on the situation.

Sherlock studied the scene carefully, even stopping to snap a few pictures with his mobile. He asked Jo to confirm time of death, but other than that the doctor just stood next to Lestrade and watched the detective work. When he finished his examination, Sherlock demanded to see the case file and evidence for the previous murder; Lestrade, as usual, offered the pair a ride to the station, and Sherlock, as usual, declined, refusing to step foot inside a police cruiser. The resulting cab ride was silent, as expected, and they both spent the time thinking over the facts of the case; however, Jo was surprised when Sherlock reached over and held her hand where it lay on the seat between them. She couldn't help but smile to herself as she looked out the window at the passing scenery.

At Scotland Yard Lestrade set them up in an interview room. Sherlock immediately began pouring through the evidence, spreading all of the photographs out on the table in order to try and recreate the crime scene; his partner had to bite back a smile at how he muttered deductions and complaints to himself. For lack of anything better to do, Jo read Alice Miller's medical file, which Lestrade had thoughtfully included. The doctor wasn't really expecting to find anything useful, but she changed her mind after just a cursory overview, going back to look at each entry more closely as a picture of what had happened began to form in her mind.

"So, any sign of her accomplice?" Lestrade asked when he came back half an hour later.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There was no accomplice; Alice Walker is innocent. She is physically incapable of committing either of these murders."

"You're telling me that she was framed and then she confessed to a murder she didn't commit?" The DI asked incredulously. "So who the hell did it?"

"The boyfriend," Jo answered simply. "Or girlfriend, but statistically speaking, most likely boyfriend."

Sherlock turned to her with a grin as Lestrade spluttered. "And how do you know that? No one said anything about a boyfriend."

"Her medical file," she replied, trying not to look too smug. "She's paid a visit to the A&E about once every two or three months for the past three years. A couple broken wrists, cracked ribs, head trauma. She always said that she either slipped in the shower or fell down the stairs, but these are text book signs of domestic abuse. And if she's in an abusive relationship, then it would explain why she has little to know social life: abusers are often extremely possessive and keep their victims from associating with other people. Walker has no family, she inherited the house she's living in from her parents about the same time the hospital visits started. She's not close to any of her neighbors and if her boyfriend doesn't live with her and works nights, coming and going at strange hours, then it's likely that no one really noticed him. And if the abuse was as bad as these files suggest, then it's likely that he, or she, would have enough sway over Walker in order to frighten her into confessing for a murder she didn't commit."

Her boyfriend was still grinning at her. "That was brilliant."

"Thanks," she answered, blushing just a bit. "It was simple, really."

"So how do we find this unnamed, unmentioned, hypothetical boyfriend?" Lestrade questioned, managing to sound both skeptical and resigned to the fact that the duo was probably right.

"We ask Alice, of course," Sherlock answered, heading for the door with a swirl of his coat.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

"Well that was a complete waste of time," Sherlock grumbled as they climbed into a cab.

Jo shrugged, agreeing but trying to be diplomatic. "I told you not to expect too much. She's obviously terrified."

"Wouldn't she be less terrified if we were able to put him in jail?" He asked, still sounding disgruntled.

She sighed. "It's not always that simple. When you've lived in fear for so long, it's hard to imagine life being any different. And if he's been effectively controlling every aspect of her life for years, then it's probably hard for her to think that she could do anything that he wouldn't know about." He just hummed in response, and snuck looks at his parter out of the corner of his eye. To anyone else, she probably looked just as she always did, but Sherlock could see the tightness in her jaw and the faraway look in her eyes; after a few moments he chalked it up to her empathizing with the woman and tried not to worry about it too much.

They spent an hour searching Alice Walker's home for any sign of another occupant. They found a few male clothes, but nothing to identify who the boyfriend was or where he could be found; there weren't even any pictures of the couple. Finally, they found a bank statement addressed to a Robert Hanover. After a little bit of research, Sherlock discovered that the man worked the night shift at a warehouse and had a history of violence. Jo insisted on calling Lestrade for the final confrontation, and the case was concluded in a relatively boring manner; Hanover took a few swings but was no match for the three of them working together even if he was overly large. His motive was even boring: latent homosexuality and internalized homophobia which he projected onto his victims.

After giving their statements, Sherlock and Jo went out to dinner. Jo was quieter than usual but not worryingly so, and they took their time walking back to the flat; her wound no longer hurt, and they both enjoyed her ability to move freely again. When they reached home Sherlock went back to the experiment he had been working on before Lestrade called and Jo set about doing a bit of housework she had let lapse while she was healing. Sherlock put the case out of his mind, and they had a pleasant evening in.

\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock woke up at to an empty bed, the cold stretch of mattress beside him making it obvious that Jo hadn't been there for a while. Concerned, he got up to see where she had gone, wanting to make sure that nothing was wrong other than one of her occasional bouts of insomnia. He found her curled up on the sofa wearing only one of his sleep shirts. She had started a fire in the grate and was staring into the flames, absentmindedly tracing the tattoo on her forearm. She had closed the curtains and hadn't turned on any of the lamps, so the only light in the room came from the fire.

"Jo, what are you doing?" He asked quietly, standing by the couch.

Jo blinked up at him in surprise before shrugging. "Thinking; I couldn't sleep."

"It's three in the morning," he said, sitting down beside her. "What's so important that it couldn't wait until morning.

She was silent long enough that he was beginning to wonder if she'd ever answer him before she gestured to her tattoo. "Do you know what this means?"

He thought for a moment, confused by the change in topic and trying to get his tired mind to work. "Traditionally, the Dahlia symbolizes warning or change and thorns symbolize protection or self-preservation."

"Very good," she answered, offering him a fleeting smile. "It was the first tattoo I got done; I was nineteen." She fell silent again and eventually it became clear that she was going to need a bit of prompting.

"Why did you get it done?" He asked, reaching over to take her free hand in his.

She sighed and seemed to steel herself before speaking, seeming to change the subject once again. "When I was seventeen, the coolest boy in my class was Eddy Howard, and for some reason he fancied me. Home was awful, to say the least, and I thought that he was amazing. He knew so much more than me and promised to take me away from that stupid little town. I'd never had a boyfriend before; I was just the weird girl who got caught kissing another girl at the dance, didn't mind doing dissections, and didn't know how to put on make up to save her life. I had no idea what the hell he was doing with me, but he said he loved me and showed me off to his friends. When we finished school, I got into a bunch of places, but I followed him to London.

"The first time he hit me was about three months after we started dating. He saw me talking to Natalie Williams, the girl I snogged at the dance, and was convinced that I was cheating on him; he cried, I didn't, and he promised he'd never do it again. The second time he hit me was about a month after that; I think I was late meeting him for a date or something. Pretty soon I was making visits to the A&E, telling people that I tripped and fell down the stairs or slipped in the shower; I played rugby too, so it was easy to pass some of them off as just a product of a violent game. My parents loved Eddy and they never suspected anything. Everyone told me how lucky I was to find a guy like him, and Eddy made it very clear that he was better than me in just about every way; he made me feel like such an idiot.

"Anyway, I met Mary during the first day of orientation, and we became friends. Her birthday is in June, and I was going to take her out to dinner. For whatever reason, Eddy decided that he didn't want me to go, but I decided that I was going to anyway; it was Mary's birthday and I didn't want to let her down. We got into a huge fight, and I walked out. He followed me and ended up pushing me down the stairs of our building. He followed me down and ended up grabbing me by the throat. I honestly thought he was going to kill me. I had broken my arm when I fell, so I couldn't even try to fight back. Luckily, Mary showed up and threatened to taser him. She took me the A&E and moved me out of the flat I shared with Eddy and into hers. I never went back.

"When I finally got out of my cast I had a scar from where the bone had come through my skin," she paused, taking a moment to place Sherlock's fingers over the scar that had never really healed properly. "I absolutely hated it, and Mary suggested that I get a tattoo to cover it up. And so I got this to remind myself that I was never going to let something like that happen to me again."

Sherlock felt a bit sick to his stomach as he leaned over and pressed a kiss against her temple. "Jo, I had no idea."

"I've never told anyone," she answered with a shrug. "Mary only knows because she was there." Sherlock hummed but didn't say anything as Jo leaned her weight against him. When Jo didn't show any sign of wanting to get up any time soon, Sherlock shifted them until he was leaning back against the arm of the couch with Jo between his legs and leaning back against his chest with his arms wrapped around her waist. They sat like that for a long time before Jo spoke again.

"You know," she said quietly, mumbling sleepily and playing with his fingers. "You remind me of him." Sherlock stiffened, his heart stuttering in his chest. Jo continued, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Not the bad parts, obviously, but there were things about him that I liked. I do have a type."

He cleared his throat, trying not to show how terrified he was by this line of conversation. "And what type is that?"

"Oh you know," she said, smiling at him. "Brilliant, larger than life, exciting; all the things I love about you."

He smiled, looking just a bit smug. "So you're saying that your type is basically me."

"Exactly," she replied brightly, pleased that he was understanding. "Sometimes I think that I've been looking for you my entire life." She placed a clumsy kiss of his jaw line before closing her eyes sleepily.

"Come on," he said, having to swallow around an unexpected lump in his throat. "Let's get you to bed. You know you won't be happy in the morning if you fall asleep out here.

She nodded and began to push herself to her feet. "Alright, but I have to put out the fire first."

"Don't worry about the fire," he answered, standing up as well. "I'll take care of it. You just go to bed, and I'll be in in a minute." She hummed in agreement and leaned up for another sleepy kiss before stumbling into their bedroom.

* * *

**Hey guys, I just wanted to thank everyone for reading this; it makes me so happy to know that people like it. I'd love to hear from you, either here or over at tumblr where I'm theravensdesk**


End file.
